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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390883">The Christmas Song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuttle4077/pseuds/Tuttle4077'>Tuttle4077</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:02:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuttle4077/pseuds/Tuttle4077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Christmas vignettes inspired by the (out of order) lyrics of The Christmas Song.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Yuletide Carols</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1941</strong>
</p><p>There was a blizzard outside, and everyone could hear the wind whistling past the windows and doors. Inside the house, the living room was tight and cozy. A healthy fire crackled in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows against the wall. A small decorated tree sat in the corner, its scent reaching out to those close by, competing with the smell of the recently finished meal which still hung in the air.</p><p>Dressed in flannel pyjamas and with slippers on his feet, Andrew Carter sat on the floor with his legs crossed. His youngest sister, Mary, sat in his lap. He rested his chin on her head and crossed his arms over her waist. A very mature twelve-year-old, she would have usually protested sitting in her big brother's lap, but this time she let it slide and even snuggled in close. The whole Carter clan was gathered together, waiting patiently as their mother put on her glasses and pulled out the family Bible. She rested it on her lap, licked her fingers, and began to flip through its pages.</p><p>The matriarch soon cleared her throat and began to read. Slowly. Deliberately. At times she had to pause to clear her throat, getting caught up with emotion.</p><p>Andrew knew it wasn't just the story of Christmas that had her all choked up. No, there was something else behind it, and Andrew was to blame. And so every time his mother paused, Andrew looked away. She could barely get out "and on earth peace, goodwill toward men" before turning away and passing the book off to her husband.</p><p>There was not much peace in the world right now, that was for sure, Andrew thought. Just over two weeks earlier, America was rocked from its complacency, and thrust into a world war. It had come as a shock to everyone. Although perhaps it shouldn't have.</p><p>Back in September of 1940, the government had instituted a peace-time draft. They must have seen the writing in the wall and knew it was only a matter of time before <em>something</em> happened.</p><p>A year later, in a twist of fate that was typical of his luck, Andrew had enlisted only a few days before he had received a draft notice. He had come home to help on the farm, and instead of going back to Muncie, he got roped into enlisting instead. Of course, that was the danger one faced when one actually had an uncle named Sam.</p><p>It has caused all kinds of headaches for the people filling out his paperwork. And before it was all untangled, he'd gone through two very uncomfortable physicals, been given two different serial numbers, and was nearly demoted to a sergeant. Not that he would have minded. The idea of being a lieutenant- in charge of leading men into battle- terrified him. But unlike most of the recruits who hadn't even graduated high school, he had a college education. And apparently that, as well as his ability to speak German, meant he was leadership material.</p><p>His mother, of course, had been upset with him, but it would have happened whether he enlisted or not. And, at the time, war seemed far off- something happening in the other side of the world. So she gave him her blessing and hoped that he would only have to put in the minimum amount of time before being put into the reserves.</p><p>And then Pearl Harbor happened and going off to war was not a slight possibility, but an inevitable reality. He remembered his mother writing to him, asking, among other things, if they would see him again before he was shipped off to who knew where. He had assured her that his leave for Christmas was still approved, but it would be cut short. So, tomorrow, after the presents were opened, Andrew would be back in his new uniform, and heading out. If and when he ever returned, was anyone's guess.</p><p>The Bible closed with a thud, and Andrew pulled himself back to the present. His father set the book aside and stood up. "It's time for bed," he said gruffly.</p><p>"Do we have to?" Andrew's sister, Alice, asked. "This is Andy's last night before-" She cut herself off and looked down at her hands in despair.</p><p>"We can stay up for a little bit," mother said, trying to sound cheerful. "Why don't we sing a few carols?"</p><p>"Oh yes!" Rebecca cried, clapping her hands as she jumped to her feet. "We might as well while we can. We're going to miss having a male voice when you're gone, Andy!"</p><p>"Rebecca!" Julia admonished as she hit the back of her sister's head.</p><p>"Ow!"</p><p>"Ooo, you're on the naughty list now!" Alice teased.</p><p>"There will be no fighting on Christmas Eve!" mother said, exasperated.</p><p>"I was only saying that there'll just be us girls!" Rebecca insisted.</p><p>"Maybe Dad will sing with us," Mary said hopefully.</p><p>"That'll never happen!" Rebecca snorted before lowering her voice to imitate him. "I've got too much work to do to spend my time caterwauling with you girls."</p><p>In all the commotion, Andrew saw his father slip out of the room. A moment later he heard the back door open. He debated following him, but decided he better sing a bit if only to quiet the girls down.</p><p>Mother sat down at the old piano and, together, the family sang a few Christmas songs. The girls cajoled him into a solo and he sang a few more songs before he excused himself.</p><p>Grabbing a heavy jacket and putting on some boots, Andrew went out the back door. Through the blowing snow, he could barely make out the light coming from the barn.</p><p>He trudged through the snow and paused just outside the barn. The door was slightly ajar, and even over the wind, he could hear his father talking. As quietly as he could, he pushed the door open a little further and slipped in.</p><p>Illuminated by the light of a lantern that hung on the nearby post Dad was resting on a pitchfork that was stuck in a pile of hay. His head was slightly bowed and his eyes were closed. His hat was pressed against his chest with one hand.</p><p>Was he praying?</p><p>While spiritual, his father wasn't terribly religious. Mother managed to drag him to church every so often, but for him, God was found more in nature than in a building.</p><p>"He's smart, but he doesn't know much," Dad said quietly. "And, Lord, you know his luck."</p><p>Andrew squirmed. He was praying about him. That didn't surprise him, but he felt awkward eavesdropping. He debated making a noise, but decided against it. Who was he to interrupt a conversation with God?</p><p>"Give him the strength of our ancestors, of warriors past. Protect his tender heart. And guide him safely home."</p><p>Dad nodded and put his cap back on his head.</p><p>"Gee, dad, you didn't say amen," Andrew said after a moment. Dad looked up and Andrew gave him a lopsided grin.</p><p>"Do you think he still got the message?" Dad asked.</p><p>"Oh, sure. I don't think it much matters, but you know mother- everything's gotta be done by the book."</p><p>"Well with seven children and a farm to run, I suppose rules are the only thing between us a chaos. All right then: amen."</p><p>"Amen." Andrew grabbed a pitch fork from the corner and began throwing hay into the cattle stalls. His father went back to doing the same. They worked in silence until Andrew cleared his throat. "I'll be okay, Dad. They've put this Little Deer Who Trips and Falls Through Forest in the Air Force," he said with a little snort, adopting the more appropriate version of his Sioux name. "How much trouble can I get into?"</p><p>"Perhaps you will be more Swift and Sure in the air," Dad agreed. "But Andrew…"</p><p>When he failed to continue, Andrew stopped and stuck his fork into the hay. "Yeah?"</p><p>Dad sighed and dropped his own fork before pulling Andrew into a hug. It lasted for only a moment before he cleared his throat and pushed him away, ruffling Andrew's hair. "You just do what you can to end this war quickly and come home. It's not fair to leave me here alone with all these women!"</p><p>"Don't worry, Dad. I'll be home before you know it. In the meantime, how do you feel about filling in for me in the Carter Family Choir?"</p><p>"Oh, I don't know about that."</p><p>"Aw, come on. It's easy: Oh come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant," Andrew sang as he went back to work. His father sighed but joined in after a few bars. Together the two men sang the familiar carols of Christmas, each trying hard not to think that it could be for the last time.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. An Open Fire</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1940</strong>
</p><p>War didn't stop for Christmas.</p><p>Then again, why would it? If it did, the world might ponder on the meaning of peace on earth and goodwill towards men, and the powers that be couldn't have that, could they? Well, perhaps some could, but certainly not that madman in Berlin. And as long as evil men chose to oppress and murder, good men would have to fight back.</p><p>From his position behind the right waist gun, Peter Newkirk snorted and pulled his jacket closer. He sounded like a bloody recruitment poster. Well good men, bad men, it didn't matter to him, he thought cynically. Whatever kind of men were in charge didn't change the fact that he was in the belly of a bomber, nearly freezing to death 20,000 bloody feet up on Christmas Eve. 20,000 feet. Cor, not even the flipping birds flew this high.</p><p>This was his second Christmas at war. He remembered Mavis telling him when the war first started that it couldn't possibly last past Christmas. Even as she said it, he knew it was nothing more than the optimistic hope of a young woman, albeit one that was shared by many in England. Wars always lasted longer than expected. But he had given her a smile and agreed, telling her he would be home before she knew it.</p><p>It hadn't ended that Christmas, it would certainly not be over by tomorrow, and Newkirk highly doubted it would be over next Christmas either.</p><p>Newkirk shook his hands and put them under his arms in an attempt to warm them. He was wearing gloves, but at this temperature- forty below zero- they didn't do much. Grabbing his machine gun again, he turned his wrist, trying to catch the face of his watch in whatever light was available. And there wasn't much. A bomber was basically a very noisy, shaky coffin. But he managed to catch a quick enough glimpse to figure they had to be close to their target. No doubt they would face some sort of resistance. They had already flown through some flak earlier and made it through relatively unscathed. Newkirk hoped their luck would hold out.</p><p>"Eyes open, lads," Captain McDonnell said over the inter-phone. "Those Kraut bastards'll be on us any minute. Michael, have you got the target?"</p><p>"Not yet," Lieutenant Thatcher, the bombardier, replied.</p><p>The flak started right on schedule. The black puffs of smoke, standing out even in the darkness of the night, concealed the deadly spray of shrapnel. The plane shook as it flew through the barrage. Newkirk cursed and shied away from the opening. There would be no fighters to shoot down while there was flak, and the last thing he wanted was a face full of shrapnel.</p><p>"There it is," Thatcher said. "Steady, steady on. And… bombs away."</p><p>Over the din of the wind and flak, Newkirk could barely make out the sound of the bomb bay doors opening. Newkirk craned his neck to look down at the earth below. The ground lit up brilliantly before plumes of smoke masked the fire of the explosions. He couldn't tell if they had actually hit their target- a factory of some sort- but there was still plenty of destruction.</p><p>"Happy Christmas you poor buggers," Newkirk whispered to himself. The factory needed to be destroyed, but he felt a pang of pity for the civilians caught in the crossfire. Of course, Jerry had no such pity for the citizens of London. They didn't even pretend to target factories or airfields. No, they dropped their deadly loads right in the heart of London without an ounce of remorse.</p><p>Still, Newkirk knew there would be innocent people down there. Women. Children. In war, no one was safe and Newkirk was convinced that everyone lost, even when they won.</p><p>At least up here he didn't have to see it personally. The world below him looked like nothing more than a great black mass with darker and lighter patches. He didn't have to see the people running for cover, huddled in shelters, caught up in the explosions.</p><p>"Let's go home, lads. We need to be all tucked away before Father Christmas comes to fill our stockings," McDonnell said.</p><p>He made it sound easy, but getting home was the most dangerous part of the trip.</p><p>The flak stopped and Newkirk gripped his machine gun tightly, swinging around to get a better look through the window. Any minute now.</p><p>There. A flash of light. And then a stream of glowing specks- bullets flying towards them. 2,300 rounds per minute if he remembered right from training. Well Newkirk could bloody well dish it out as well.</p><p>Newkirk pulled the trigger of his fifty caliber machine gun. The bullets shot out, flying through the air like spurts of dragon's breath. "Hold still you bloody bastard," Newkirk growled. Ah. That was a good bloke. The fighter began to spin out of the sky, streaks of black trailing behind it.</p><p>"Good show, Newkirk!" Sergeant Ratcliff cheered over the radio.</p><p>"There's another," the tail gunner, Private Smethurst reported. Newkirk scanned the sky and spotted it, letting loose another spray of bullets.</p><p>He was a tricky devil this one, and he had a friend. Newkirk tried to track their movement with his gun.</p><p>Suddenly, a black plume of smoke clouded his vision and the plane jerked violently. "They got the blasted engine!" McDonnell cried.</p><p>"Keep her steady, mate!"</p><p>"Get that bastard!"</p><p>There was another flash and Newkirk saw flames within the smoke. Another jerk and he heard Smith, the left side waist gunner cry out. "That's another engine!"</p><p>Oh bloody hell. Down to two engines. This could really be it then! Newkirk nearly lost his balance as the plane slipped out from under him, suddenly and sharply angling downwards.</p><p>McDonnell let out a string of curses. Newkirk joined him. The German fighter, seeing them as easy prey now, swooped down and fired at them again. Newkirk heard metal shredding and a few cries of pain. He looked behind him see Smith slumped down on the ground. Ripping off his oxygen mask, Newkirk abandoned his gun and crawled over to him.</p><p>"Come on, mate. Come on, get-" it was no use. Smith was obviously dead.</p><p>"It's time to go, Newkirk!" It was Ratcliff. The Sergeant tugged on Newkirk's pack and hauled him to his feet. Then he pried open the side door. Smoke poured into the plane and Newkirk ducked his face into his shoulder. "Let's-"</p><p>Another ricochet of bullets rang out and Ratcliff flew back with a spray of blood.</p><p>"Come on then." McDonnell pulled Ratcliff away and motioned for Newkirk to get going. Well this was it then. No one at the controls.</p><p>Newkirk took a steadying breath and without another thought, threw himself out the door.</p><p>The world rushed past him. The roaring wind filled his ears and his eyes watered. He fumbled around his chest until he felt the cord for his chute. A closed his eyes and counted and when he thought he had waited long enough, gave it a tight tug.</p><p>His heart leaped into his throat when he suddenly jerked upwards. He looked up, relieved to see his chute opened. But he wasn't safe. Not until he reached the ground in one piece.</p><p>Newkirk snorted. What a bloody joke. He would never be safe again, not now.</p><p>He scanned the skies and saw another chute. Then another. He waited, but no more appeared. Three. Three out of ten.</p><p>There was an explosion as their Bomber burst into flames and fell like a stone past them. A piece of flaming shrapnel broke loose and Newkirk watched in horror as it hit one of the other chutes. The attached man- was it McDonnell?- failed wildly as the fire ate up the chute. And then, his chute gone a no longer slowly his descent, he dropped out of sight. Newkirk looked away.</p><p>A ruddy mug's game.</p><p>Even with his chute intact, the world was coming up at the dizzying speed. Newkirk wracked his brain, trying to remember his training. How the hell was he supposed to land?</p><p>Newkirk looked down. There was an explosion as the bomber finally hit the ground. Flames engulfed the destroyed plane. Newkirk frantically tugged at the chute, trying to change his trajectory. The last thing he needed was to land in the fiery wreckage.</p><p>He maneuver worked and he let out a little sigh. He didn't have time to relax though. The ground was awfully close now.</p><p>Newkirk landing was less than grateful, and he felt all the air leave his body on impact. Gasping for breath, he lay on the ground as his chute fell over him. Oh bloody hell that hurt.</p><p>Taking a minute to gather himself, Newkirk crawled out from under the chute. Then he freed himself from it entirely and looked around.</p><p>Blimey. Now what?</p><p>A hand landed on his shoulder and Newkirk nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around and saw Lieutenant Thatcher. In the light from the fire behind him, Newkirk saw streaks of blood running down the Lieutenant's face.</p><p>"Are you all right, Corporal?" Thatcher asked.</p><p>Newkirk shook his head to clear it. "Blimey, Lieutenant, I ought to ask you the same ruddy thing."</p><p>Thatcher managed a smile. "Come on, we've got to go."</p><p>Where? Newkirk thought bitterly. They were in the middle of Germany.</p><p>As if to remind him of it, shouts filled the air. Shouts that were decidedly not English. Thatcher pulled out his side arm and looked around. There was a bang and he suddenly fell back. Newkirk cried out and instinctively reached out to grab him. The sudden weight caused him to drop to his knees.</p><p>"Lieutenant. Bloody hell, Lieutenant!" Newkirk held the officer in his arms. Thatcher gurgle up blood. Newkirk frantically put his hand over the wound, knowing it was no use. He heard the ground crunch under someone's boots, and he looked up. Two German soldiers towered over him, their rifles inches away from him.</p><p>"Hands up," one ordered in heavily accented English. "For you, the war is over."</p><p>Newkirk looked down at Thatcher, then over to the burning wreckage of his plane, then back up at the Germans.</p><p>"And a happy Christmas to you too."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Tiny Tots</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1943</strong>
</p><p>Air raid sirens wailed, cutting through the crisp afternoon air. Sergeant Rick Olsen looked up, scanning the skies. They weren't here yet, but they would be soon.</p><p>It was just one of the dangers that came from being the outside man. Stalag 13, as crummy as the place was, was sheltered from a lot of dangers. Sure they had to worry about the Gestapo, but who didn't? Terrible food? They actually ate better than most civilians.</p><p>But one thing they rarely had to worry about was getting blown up. At least not in an air raid. Carter was something of a menace with all his bombs, and more than once he had nearly brought down the camp, but he'd gotten better with time.</p><p>Colonel Hogan usually tried to give him a heads-up about any incoming raids, but it wasn't as if he had a complete schedule.</p><p>Civilians poured into the street, fleeing their homes and businesses to rush to the closest shelter. Olsen took a moment to lock the door before joining them. It seemed like a silly thing to do, but air raids were the perfect cover for someone desperate and the little grocery shop was the perfect target. Not that a locked door would do much, but it might just make someone pause.</p><p>Hurry, hurry Olsen thought as he heard the faint hum of planes. Maintaining an even step despite the approaching planes, Olsen followed the crowd and soon was safe in a shelter under the local Hofbrau. Just in time too.</p><p>Everyone looked up. Bombs whistled overhead. There was a pause and the silence made everyone's heart stop. And then the explosions. The ground shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. A child screamed.</p><p>It didn't matter how often it happened, an air raid was always terrifying. Any one of those bombs could land right on their heads.</p><p>Olsen found himself a place against the wall and leaned back, tipping his hat over his face. He should have left earlier. He was due back in camp tonight. He couldn't miss Christmas- his absence would be too obvious on such a big day. And he didn't like the idea of his temporary replacement being given any letters or packages meant for him.</p><p>He became aware, more from instinct than anything, that someone was paying more attention to him than he liked. Olsen peeked out from under his hat. The shelter was crowded, but he finally pinpointed the source. A group of children were looking in his direction and pointing. Olsen recognized them- some local children that he often slipped treats to when Max, the grocer and his faux-uncle, wasn't looking.</p><p>Olsen patted his pockets looking for that bag of candies he had taken earlier. He was planning on bringing it back to camp to add to the Schultz bribery supply. But with bombs falling around them, he figured the terrified children would appreciate it more.</p><p>Pushing himself up, Olsen picked his way through the crowded basement. "Hello," he greeted the children.</p><p>They looked up and smiled at him until another bomb dropped close by. Then they ducked their heads and whimpered.</p><p>Olsen crouched down and placed a hand on a little girls shoulder. "It's all right," he said with a stiff smile. He held out the bag and, with a sniffle, she reached in and pulled one out. The other kids crowded closer and Olsen offered them some as well. Pretty quick the other children in the shelter caught wind of his candy bag and mobbed Olsen.</p><p>Olsen held the candy up and tried to fend off the children. He was knocked onto his back as one child climbed up onto him.</p><p>"Shoo! All of you. Get off Herr Hansen! Where are you manners?"</p><p>The children parted and Olsen sat up, brushing himself off. He looked up at his savior. Frau Werner. The young woman had her hands on her hips, giving the children a stern look. Her face softened as she met Olsen's eyes. "Are you all right, Herr Hansen?"</p><p>"I'm all right," Olsen assured her.</p><p>She nodded and turn her disapproving look to the children again. "Now what do you all say?"</p><p>The children looked properly shamed as they uttered their apologies. "But can we still have a candy?" one asked presumptuously. Frau Werner opened her mouth, about to scold them when Olsen laughed.</p><p>"One at a time then!" The children obediently lined up and waited their turn. Olsen grinned at the school teacher. "You saved my life, Frau Werner!"</p><p>Frau Werner blushed, then laughed. "I do what I can, Herr Hansen."</p><p>There was one candy left when the children were all done and Olsen offered it to her. She took it and popped it in her mouth. The children, rather than going back to rejoin their parents, sat down around Olsen. He wondered if it was because they were expecting more treats. Frankly, he wished they would scatter. He didn't mind charming them with treats, but the truth was, children made him nervous. He just didn't know what to do with them.</p><p>He rose to his feet and tipped his hat to Frau Werner. "Well then," he said and he turned to leave.</p><p>"Herr Hansen!" one of the children cried. "Herr Hansen, tell us a story!"</p><p>Olsen arched an eyebrow. "Me?" he asked incredulously.</p><p>"Yes! Tell us about Denmark!"</p><p>Olsen shifted awkwardly.</p><p>"We are to be learning about Denmark in school after the break," Frau Werner explained. "Perhaps you can tell us a little about it."</p><p>"Oh, I don't know. We left Denmark when I was very young." Actually, his parents had left before he was even born. And they had moved to America, not Germany.</p><p>Colonel Hogan had once told him that the best lies were either so big and preposterous that they had to be believed, or so close to the truth that they were undetectable. To operate on the outside, Olsen went with the latter. Unlike the colonel and the others, his cover wasn't something he could throw off the moment the latest mission was over. No, Olsen had to eat, sleep and breathe Jannik Hansen. Even when he was back in camp, the alias was in the back of his mind.</p><p>So it was easiest to make Jannik as close to himself as possible. A Danish immigrant who had come to live and work with his mother's cousin- his "uncle" Max.</p><p>The fact that he couldn't speak German without a slight Danish accent might have influenced his decision.</p><p>"Oh please, Herr Hansen!"</p><p>"Well I- wait. Do you hear that?"</p><p>The children, almost in unison, cocked their heads. "I don't hear anything," one said.</p><p>"Exactly. The raid is over."</p><p>"That was short," one child said happily.</p><p>"Yes, they must have moved on to something more important," Olsen said.</p><p>"Thank goodness," Frau Werner said with a sigh of relief. "Those barbarians."</p><p>"Yeah," Olsen agreed. "Barbarians."</p><p>"Maybe, Herr Hansen, you will come to the school one day and tell us about Denmark," Frau Werner said tentatively.</p><p>Olsen hesitated. He lived and worked in Hammelburg, but apart from being a friendly face behind the counter of a grocery shop, he didn't really stand out. It worked best that way. He doubted going to a school to talk to a bunch of kids would thrust him into the spotlight, but he couldn't be too careful. Especially since he wasn't convinced that Frau Werner, a newcomer to Hammelburg, wasn't a Gestapo agent. A school teacher would be the perfect cover after all- children tended to talk.</p><p>Still, Frau Werner looked so hopeful. And innocent enough. And the children were also eagerly waiting for him to answer. "I'll see what I can do," he finally said. Not a promise, but not a refusal either.</p><p>Frau Werner seemed content with that. "Thank you, Herr Hansen."</p><p>Olsen nodded. "Merry Christmas, ma'am," he said before moving past her. He checked his watch. He still had time to get back to camp before evening roll call.</p><p>He was about to climb the steps when something around his leg stopped him. He looked down to see a little girl hugging him. She looked up at him and beamed. "Thank you for the candy, Herr Hansen!"</p><p>Olsen patted her head. "You're welcome." She freed him and scampered off to her family.</p><p>Olsen grinned and shook his head. Cute kid.</p><p>His smile faded when he got outside and saw the destruction. His shop was still standing, but two of the buildings on the street were reduced to rubble. A family was picking through some of the debris.</p><p>Olsen checked his watch again and sighed. He was going to be late, he decided as he went to lend a helping hand.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Santa's on His Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas 1944</strong>
</p><p>Christmas was never easy for a soldier. Far from home and family, loneliness and homesickness abounded. Being a prisoner of war was even worse. A prisoner was not only far from home, but behind enemy lines, denied freedoms and privileges even the common soldier took for granted.</p><p>Letters and parcels, few and far between at the best of times, rarely arrived in time for Christmas, compounding the anxiety. Of course, the boys probably gave each other little presents on Christmas, but it was certainly not the same as receiving a gift from home.</p><p>Officially, Sergeant Hans Schultz didn't know anything about the prisoners' extracurricular activities- his famous "I know nothing" kept him safe from awkward and dangerous questioning from his superiors and the Gestapo. But unofficially, Schultz knew that these were no ordinary prisoners. If he were honest with himself, they weren't prisoners at all, free to leave whenever they wanted.</p><p>Still, ordinary prisoners or not, they were still stuck in Stalag 13 for Christmas. Schultz couldn't help but feel sorry for them. Many of the men had spent three Christmases or more as prisoners. And every new Christmas wore them down a little more.</p><p>Well, not this year.</p><p>Perhaps it would be considered giving aid and comfort to the enemy, but Schultz was determined to make this Christmas a little brighter. He justified it by reminding himself that his Christmas scheme had caused the prisoners some extra anxiety in the preceding months.</p><p>It had been against regulations. The Geneva Convention. If Colonel Hogan had found out before today, the senior prisoner of war would have probably skinned him alive. But Schultz was not as dumb as he looked. It had taken all his brains and the cooperation of the other, more sympathetic guards, but he had managed to hide his little operation quite well.</p><p>Shortly after roll call Schultz gathered his guards together in their quarters. Being Christmas, many were on leave. Schultz had arranged for only those in on the plan to be on duty. They had protested- no one wanted to be there on Christmas, it seemed- saying that they weren't <em>that</em> sympathetic, but Schultz had promised to make it up to them later.</p><p>"Is it all organized?" Schultz asked.</p><p>"Jawohl, Sergeant," Corporal Langenscheidt said with a nod. "Where should we start?"</p><p>"It does not matter, but let's do Barracks Two last," Schultz replied. "But wait, I have to change."</p><p>The other guards nodded and Schultz ducked into his own room. It wasn't much, but there had to be some perks to being the sergeant of the guard. Quickly, Schultz shucked off his uniform and grabbed the bright red suit that lay on his bed. A few minutes later he emerged from his room, dressed in a Santa suit, complete with a fake beard.</p><p>It was dangerous, of course. If Kommandant Klink should catch him, it could mean punishment. He might even be mad enough to send Schultz to the Russian front. But it was Christmas, and Schultz knew that every Christmas after roll call, Klink slunk back into bed and slept for another few hours until lunch, when he would have an extravagant meal all to himself.</p><p>"All right, I am ready," Schultz announced. "Are the prisoners outside?"</p><p>From the door, Private Mayer shook his head. "It is cold out. They are all inside."</p><p>Schultz grinned. This would mean their arrival in each barracks would be a surprise. He would have to tell them not to send word to Colonel Hogan. How they could do so without leaving their barracks was something that Schultz did not want to contemplate.</p><p>Together, the small group of guards made their way out into the compound and to the prisoners' barracks.</p><p>Schultz paused outside the first barracks, suddenly second-guessing his plan. He hoped the prisoners would be happy. But what if they were angry? What if they realized that some of their anxiety over the last two months had been because of this? What if they had missed something important, monumental, because of his delay? What if it did more damage than good?</p><p>Well, there was only one way to find out. Schultz took a deep breath and pushed open the door.</p><hr/><p>Barracks Two. Finally. Schultz hoped his reception there would be just as good as the other barracks. He only had Langenscheidt with him now. The other guards were not needed, and they had left, feeling as happy as Schultz.</p><p>Schultz hoped someone was not watching out into the compound. At the other barracks, the prisoners had been surprised. But Barracks Two was not like the others. This hut held Colonel Hogan, and the wily American was always on the lookout for something strange.</p><p>But as they approached, Schultz didn't hear or see the door close at all. He didn't hear anyone say anything, or a mad scramble behind the door. Maybe, just maybe, he would pull this off.</p><p>"Ready?" Schultz asked. Langensheidt nodded, looking excited. With that, Schultz pushed open the door.</p><p>The men of Barracks Two were all asleep. Schultz deflated, suddenly feeling bad for interrupting them. He debated the merits of ducking back out when Newkirk peered down from his bunk.</p><p>"Oi, what's all this? Schultzie, is that you?"</p><p>"Ho ho ho," Schultz bellowed. "I am Father Christmas! Santa Claus! Der Weihnactsmann!"</p><p>"Cor, what are you on about? And what's all that you've got with you?" Newkirk looked confused. The other men in the barracks were also awake now and regarding Schultz curiously.</p><p>"Why, your presents, of course," Schultz said with a jolly laugh. "For all the good little boys of Barracks Two."</p><p>"Presents?" LeBeau asked, astonished.</p><p>"What, from you?" Newkirk asked suspiciously.</p><p>"See for yourself," Schultz replied. He motioned to Langenscheidt and together they dumped the contents of their big sacs on the common room table. Carter pushed himself off his bunk and picked up one of the envelopes.</p><p>"Hey!" he cried. "It's mail! It's mail from home!"</p><p>"What?" Kinch said in surprise. "All of it?"</p><p>Carter grabbed a few more envelopes, and a package. "It sure is! And Red Cross packages too! Look at it all! It must be three months' worth!"</p><p>"Three months of- hold on one bleeding minute!" Newkirk cried. "Schultz! Have you been keeping our mail from us for three bloody months?"</p><p>Schultz ducked his head. He had been worried about this. "I delivered the letters that looked urgent," he explained. "I just wanted you boys to have a good Christmas for once. And what better way than to have letters from your family?"</p><p>"And here I was thinking everyone had forgotten me," Kinch said as he grabbed a letter.</p><p>"I am sorry," Schultz apologized, feeling guilty.</p><p>"What? Sorry?" Carter cried. "Why this is the most mail I've ever seen. We never get mail on Christmas! I always think I'm going to save just one letter to open Christmas morning, but I never do! Oh boy! I wonder if there are any actual Christmas letters in here!"</p><p>"Hey, hey, hey." It was Colonel Hogan, coming out of his office. "What is going o- hey, what is all this? Mail?" He sounded surprised, then giddy. "Holy smokes, look at it all!"</p><p>It wasn't often that Schultz saw Colonel Hogan lose his composure, but the sheer amount of mail all at once would make even a soldier who wasn't a prisoner excited.</p><p>"There's only so much because he's been keeping it from us for months!" Newkirk groused with a scowl. He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered down at Schultz.</p><p>"What? How did we not know that?" Colonel Hogan asked.</p><p>"I know how to keep a secret, Colonel Hogan," Schultz replied proudly.</p><p>"You could have fooled me," LeBeau said with a little laugh.</p><p>"You are not mad, Colonel Hogan?" Langenscheidt asked tentatively.</p><p>"I should be. Keeping our mail from us," Colonel Hogan said with a tsk. "That's against the Geneva Convention Schultz."</p><p>"Well, you have it now," Schultz said. "And I made sure no one opened any of it. It is all there- every envelope and package."</p><p>"It sure is," the colonel marvelled.</p><p>Schultz put a hand on Colonel Hogan's shoulder. "Merry Christmas."</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Schultz," Hogan replied warmly, and Schultz believed that he meant it. Then the colonel turned his attention to the pile. "All right boys, let's dig in!"</p><p>A cheer went up and the prisoners descended on the mail.</p><p>Schultz and Langenscheidt shared a satisfied look and left the hut. "Merry Christmas, Karl," Schultz said.</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Hans."</p><p>Schultz thumped him on the back as another cheer went up from inside the barracks.</p><p>Mission accomplished.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. From One to Ninety-Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1999</strong>
</p><p>It was late. Christmas dinner had finally ended, and he was curled up in his favorite chair, a heavy wool blanket covering his lap. The Yule log, cherry wood with a sprinkling of red wine, crackled in the fireplace, and he watched it for a few moments, mesmerized. Taking a deep breath, he filled his nose with the sweet scent and let out a little sigh.</p><p>At his feet, his grandchildren played, anxiously waiting for when they could open their presents. They would have to wait, of course, until tomorrow to see what Pѐre Noёl would bring them, but there were certainly enough presents they could open tonight to excite them. Somewhere in the corner, his children and some of his grandchildren were talking. Every once in a while they would throw a furtive glance his way. He tried to listen to what they were saying, but his hearing was not what it once was.</p><p>Louis LeBeau glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Soon his family would bundle up and head to midnight mass. LeBeau wondered if he could beg it off this year. After all, he had attended many in his life and, at ninety-two, perhaps this year he deserved to stay home in his comfortable chair and go to sleep early.</p><p>Ninety-two. Sacré chat, he was old. And now, he was on the verge of entering not just a new century, but a new millennium. It seemed too strange to be real. He wondered what the new era would bring. He had already seen so many things evolve since his youth, that it hardly seemed possible that humanity could go much further.</p><p>He wondered too, what would be left in the past. Perhaps the new millennium would finally bring peace. But LeBeau had seen too much war to ever believe that could really happen. People were fools. They never learned.</p><p>LeBeau rested his head back against his chair and closed his eyes. His mind wandered back to another time- to a time of war, when he had been a prisoner deep in the heart of Germany. He had secretly been part of the most successful underground operation of the war- responsible for sabotage, intelligence, and helping other prisoners escape. He remembered the sounds, the smell, the fear, the excitement. Oh yes, it had been exciting despite all the constant fear. He remembered the exhilaration of pulling off another successful mission. The hope of freeing his home, his people. The pride of delivering a blow to his enemy.</p><p>Perhaps he was a fool too. And perhaps as long as men delighted in heroics, they would always create enemies to fight. Yes, people would always remember how to make war, but they would forget those who fought all the ones before.</p><p>A wave of sadness washed over LeBeau as he remembered the men he had fought with. Le colonel. Kinchloe. Carter. Newkirk. Gone. All of them. Gone, and soon to be forgotten, like so much of the past.</p><p>Carter had been the first to go. Cancer. LeBeau remembered the phone call from Carter's daughter to tell him. He had been too young. It should not have happened that way.</p><p>LeBeau could only guess at what happened to the colonel. He only knew he had died because he had received a call from an American lawyer, informing him that Robert Hogan had left him something in his will. It would not surprise LeBeau at all if the colonel had died in the line of duty somewhere- playing spy games with the Russians.</p><p>After that, LeBeau had made every attempt to keep in regular contact with Kinchloe and Newkirk. They had even met together on the odd occasion. And when they got too old to travel, they spoke often on the telephone.</p><p>And then one day, Kinchloe missed a phone call. And then another. The third time, Kinch's sweet wife had answered the phone, and had told him he wasn't well. LeBeau had talked to him, had heard the frailty in that once strong voice, and his heart broke. Two weeks later and another phone call delivered the dreaded news: another one gone.</p><p>Newkirk, his dearest friend in that horrible place, was the last to go. Though they were both old and cranky, they had been determined to meet together often in person. Most of their time together was spent arguing over food, or trying to cheat each other at cards. Like the old days. They had both outgrown such silly things long ago, but after Kinch's death, it felt like a way to keep the old times alive, and in doing so, it helped keep the others alive in memory.</p><p>They reminisced about those times often. They talked endlessly of the missions they completed. Of the girls they fought over. They spoke of Carter and how he annoyed them, and how endearing he really was. They spoke of Kinchloe, and marvelled that he had stayed sane while surrounded by lunatics. And, of course, they spoke of Colonel Hogan, almost reverently- about how he saved them- not only from the Gestapo and other dangers, but had literally saved their souls by giving them purpose when it seemed they were doomed to spend the rest of their lives as helpless prisoners. They sometimes spoke of their time in Stalag 13 before Hogan had arrived, but didn't dwell on it- bad times, they were.</p><p>The last time they had met, LeBeau knew. Knew it would be the last time. Cancer again. But Newkirk, never one to show his true feelings, had laughed and smiled, and kept up the pretence that they would meet again the next month. It was only until the very end of the visit that Newkirk dropped the act by folding LeBeau into a long, warm hug. They ignored each other's tears when they said good-bye. It wasn't long after that, and Newkirk was gone. LeBeau had attended his funeral. A small affair. If only more people had known how important Newkirk was.</p><p>LeBeau shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. He was the last. The only one, perhaps, who remembered them as they should be remembered- as heroes. And soon, he would follow them, and they and their work would be forgotten completely.</p><p>"Papa?" LeBeau looked up to see his son come over and kneel beside his chair. "Papa, it's time for presents."</p><p>LeBeau nodded. As the patriarch of the family, it was his duty to hand them out. His son handed him the presents one by one, and he called out the children's names. Eventually there was one left. LeBeau looked at the tag. It was for him.</p><p>"What is it?" he asked.</p><p>"Open it, Papa," his son, Pierre, laughed.</p><p>LeBeau turned it over in his hands. It had to be a book, he decided. He grimaced. His eyes were not as good as they once were; he wasn't sure he wanted a book. With a little sigh he tore off the paper and peered at the cover. There was a picture of him and the other men of Stalag 13. And above it, an English title.</p><p>
  <em>Hogan's Heroes- the Prisoners' Underground</em>
</p><p>LeBeau looked at the title. Then he blinked and looked again. "What is this?" he asked.</p><p>"We wanted to ask you the same thing!" Pierre said. "I saw it while on business in America."</p><p>LeBeau turned the book over and skimmed the summary on the back. His heart thumped. The Americans had declassified Stalag 13! Why had no one told him?</p><p>"Did you read it?" LeBeau asked, still surprised by the book in his hands.</p><p>"Yes! Tell me, Papa, is all this true?" Pierre asked, sounding amazed.</p><p>"I do not know what it says yet!" LeBeau said with a little laugh.</p><p>"But, you were a saboteur?" Pierre pressed. By now his entire family, who no doubt had at least heard of the book and its contents, were gathered at his feet, watching him eagerly.</p><p>"Oh yes," LeBeau admitted. "Yes, we did many things at Stalag 13, my friends and I."</p><p>"Tell us, grandfather!" one of his younger grandchildren said eagerly.</p><p>LeBeau glanced at the clock. "We will be late for Mass."</p><p>"Mass can wait, Papa. Please, tell us."</p><p>LeBeau grinned and settled back into his chair. Then, to all his family, from his smallest great grandchild to his oldest son, he began to tell his story. And as they listened intently, he grinned. Carter. Hogan. Kinch. Newkirk. They would be joining him into the new millennium- he would make sure no one forgot them.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Dressed Up Like Eskimos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas 1944</strong>
</p><p>There was some sort of commotion outside in the main room. Colonel Robert Hogan groaned as he rubbed his eyes. "Peace on earth," he grumbled. "I can't even get five minutes of sleep." With a stretch and a yawn, Hogan pulled himself up, and then jumped off his bunk. He held the side of his bed for a minute and shook his head to clear it. Whatever was going on out there had better be good.</p><p>"Hey, hey, hey," he said as he came out of his office. "What's going o-" He cut himself off as his brain tried to catch up with his eyes. Schultz and Corporal Langenscheidt were there, the former dressed as Santa Claus. Piled high on the table were letters and parcels, more than he had ever seen at one time. "Hey, what is all this? Mail?" He blinked. Yes, it had to be mail. "Holy smokes! Look at it all!"</p><p>"There's only so much because he's been keeping it from us for three bloody months!" Newkirk informed him sourly.</p><p>"What? How did we not know that?" There was no way Schultz could keep a secret like that from them. Was there? Hogan shook his head. The last few months had been busy. And they had received a few pieces of mail here and there. And Red Cross packages too. Maybe Schultz had given them enough to keep them from being suspicious.</p><p>"I know how to keep a secret, Colonel Hogan," Schultz said and Hogan pegged him with a curious gaze. Well, wonders never ceased.</p><p>"You could have fooled me!" LeBeau laughed</p><p>"You are not mad, Colonel Hogan?" Corporal Langenscheidt asked.</p><p>Hogan paused. Was he? After all, three months was a long time to go without mail. And those Red Cross packages would have come in handy. Still, seeing a whole pile of presents and letters on Christmas morning made it hard to be mad. In fact, if he was honest with himself, Hogan was downright giddy. He hadn't been this excited on Christmas morning since he was a kid.</p><p>"I should be," he said finally. "Keeping mail from us. That's against the Geneva Convention, Schultz."</p><p>"Well you have it now. And I made sure no one opened any of it. It's all there—every envelop and package," Schultz said.</p><p>"It sure is."</p><p>Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he glanced up at Schultz. The big man dressed in red smiled down at him fondly and Hogan couldn't help but think that perhaps Schultz deserved the code name Papa Bear more than he did. Fortunes of war had decreed Schultz was their enemy, but it was in name only. The big guy didn't even know the meaning of the word.</p><p>"Merry Christmas," Schultz said.</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Schultz," Hogan replied. Schultz nodded and beckoned Langenscheidt to follow him out. Colonel Hogan turned his attention to the pile of mail. "All right boys, let's dig in!" The men let out a few whoops and hollers, but Hogan held up a hand before they could descend on the pile. "All right hold it! Let's not act like a bunch of savages. Carter, Kinch, divvy them out. Set the Red Cross parcels to the side- we'll deal with them later."</p><p>"No problem, boy!" Carter said, apparently too excited to add a sir. He and Kinch began digging through the pile, sorting them into piles.</p><p>From his bunk, Newkirk let out a snort and turned away to face the wall. "Just leave my flipping letter on the end of my bed," he grumbled before covering himself with his blanket.</p><p>A half frown tugged at Hogan's face as he watched the corporal. Newkirk rarely got into the Christmas spirit. And the promise of mail didn't hold much sway for him either. The truth was, he hardly got any mail around the holidays. Hogan opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it.</p><p>"This is for you, Colonel," Kinch said as he handed Hogan a few letters and a small package. "There may be more. Do you want to wait for the rest?"</p><p>"I'll come back later," Hogan said as he tapped his letters in the air. Tucking his package under his arm, he ambled back to his office. Hogan tossed his letters onto his desk and then set the package down.</p><p>"Which one first?" Hogan twirled his finger and finally grabbed the closest envelop to him. A quick glance at the return address told him it was from his cousin, Thomas. Hogan scrunched his nose. Thomas was stationed somewhere in the Pacific which meant that after going through the gamut of censors, there was probably not much to it. Oh well. Better to start with this one than end with it.</p><p>Hogan settled into his chair and ripped open the envelop with his finger. His eyes widened. It was a Christmas miracle. Hogan didn't see much censorship at all.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Rob,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If the army is as efficient as I think it is, this letter might get to you by Christmas; it's - - - - - - - now. It's funny to think that by the time you get this (whenever that is) you'll be covered in snow. Christmas time here is as hotter than hell. And the humidity, yech. The boys keep telling me it'll give me a chance to work on my sunburn. Hilarious.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They think they're so clever, but I gotta tell you a story. You'd think with how busy we are, we wouldn't have time to get tangled up in gossip. Especially not ridiculous gossip. But apparently not. You're not going to believe this, Rob, but I swear it's true.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>See, a few weeks ago we got word that Nazis, dressed as Eskimos, had overrun - - - - - - - - . I don't know how this rumor got started, but as crazy as it was, half my men believed it! They were so convinced that they started hoarding canned salmon! It was nuts! Here we are in - - - - - - - where we are surrounded by fresh fish, and there were outright brawls over canned salmon! I think the heat is melting our brains.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So as bad as it is to be POW, be grateful for snow, Robbo. Yeah, I know. Not much of a consolation prize. But I tell you, I miss snow on Christmas. So if you get the chance, toss a snowball for me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I gotta cut this short. Maybe I'll get back to it later before I send it off. Miss you. Pray for you. The whole drill.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-Tom</em>
</p><p>Hogan folded the letter and shook his head. Now that was a new one. Nazis dressing as Eskimos, invading somewhere stateside. Real or not, and it most definitely was not, it sounded like something he would try to pull over on someone. Hogan briefly wondered if he had a German counterpart wreaking havoc on the Allies, but shook the thought from him head. Rumors had a way of coming to life and taking off, even without help.</p><p>But maybe he'd store the Eskimo idea away for some other time. Who knew when it would come in handy.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Hard to Sleep Tonight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1943</strong>
</p><p>Underneath the toughest POW camp in all of Germany lay a network of tunnels so vast and complex that it would stagger the imagination. The tunnels housed everything an underground organization needed: a machine shop that made souvenir lighters, a chemical lab for creating bombs, a forgery unit that churned out German money by the baleful, and a radio room that provided constant contact with the outside world as far away as London.</p><p>All were silent. Even the radio was off. But Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe sat next to it anyway. Waiting.</p><p>Always waiting.</p><p>Because even though the machines and the printing press were all asleep, the sabotage unit never really stopped working. And right now, there were five men outside the wire. Until they returned, Kinch would be waiting right there.</p><p>Kinch eased back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. He debated the merits of getting some shut eye, but figured it was a lost cause. Until everyone was back safe and sound, he knew it was no use. Not only would worry rob him of a decent rest, but it wouldn't surprise him if everyone arrived at different times, just far enough apart for him to flirt with sleep before being awaken again.</p><p>A noise somewhere down one of the passages seemed to prove his point. Kinch let his feet fall to the floor and he sat up straight. He strained his ears to try a hear who it was. Or rather, what it was. It sounded like clacking. Or maybe a barking cough. Or-</p><p>Grabbing a revolver, Kinch jumped to his feet as the noise got closer. He lowered it when he saw LeBeau appear from the darkness. Slung over his shoulder was a gunny sack with bird feet poking out the end.</p><p>"Hush, hush my little ones," LeBeau chided as he tugged at the bag. This just made the birds angry and they squawked louder.</p><p>"LeBeau, what is that?" Kinch asked as he lowered his gun and set it on the table.</p><p>"Pheasants!" LeBeau replied happily. "For Christmas dinner tomorrow!"</p><p>"Pheasants?" Kinch repeated. "Live pheasants?" It was a dumb question to ask. They were obviously alive. The better question would have been how LeBeau had managed to get them back to camp and into the tunnels without bringing every patrol and guard down on him.</p><p>"Of course!" LeBeau cried somewhat indignantly. "I will kill them tomorrow so they will be the most fresh they can be!"</p><p>"And just where are you planning on keeping them?"</p><p>LeBeau grinned. "Do not worry. I have been planning this for weeks. I have the most perfect spot." And with that, LeBeau disappeared down another passageway. Kinch shook his head with a grin. A couple of pheasants for Christmas dinner. Kinch had no idea where and how LeBeau had procured them, but he knew it hadn't been as simple as requesting them from London.</p><p>A few minutes later, LeBeau was back in the radio room, dusting off his hands. "C'est bon. We will have a feast tomorrow!" He checked his watch. "Are the others back yet?"</p><p>Kinch shook his head. "Not yet."</p><p>LeBeau looked down the tunnel, them up the ladder to the barracks above. "Do you want me to wait with you?"</p><p>"Nah, it's late," Kinch replied. "You go hit the hay. I'll wait up."</p><p>"All right then," LeBeau said with a nod. "Merci, Kinch."</p><p>"C'est rien. Get going, huh."</p><p>"Oui. I will go." And with that, LeBeau clambered up the ladder and out of sight.</p><p>Kinch settled back in his chair. He could faintly hear the pheasants and he wondered what they might taste like.</p><p>His thoughts drifted to other things and after a while, Kinch was skimming the edge of sleep when another arrival pulled him back to consciousness. Just as he thought- no rest for him until they were all back.</p><p>Kinch leaned forward in his chair, waiting to see who it was. A giddy whoop told him it must be Carter and Newkirk, back from blowing up a bridge. Sure enough, the two rounded the corner a moment later.</p><p>"Hey Kinch!" Carter greeted brightly. "We're back. And boy, did you miss out on a great explosion!"</p><p>Kinch hid a grimace. He didn't need to be reminded that, yet again, he had missed out on something big. It was his lot in life- or at least in the operation. Sure he got to go on some missions outside the wire, but they were few and far between. But when it came down to it, his place was in the background, holding down the fort.</p><p>"Did everything go okay?" Kinch asked, shaking off the disgruntled thoughts.</p><p>"Piece of pie," Carter assured him.</p><p>"Had a bit of trouble getting back but nothing we couldn't handle," Newkirk amended, shooting a pointed look at Carter.</p><p>"Oh? What kind of trouble?" Kinch asked.</p><p>"Later," Newkirk said dismissively. "Any trouble here after the explosion?"</p><p>Kinch frowned. Later usually meant never. He had lost count of the number of times the guys had told him they would explain later, only to forget. As integral as he seemed to be to the operation, Kinch didn't know half of what went on- or at least, he didn't know half the details of what actually happened outside the wire.</p><p>"Kinch?" Carter asked when Kinch remained silent.</p><p>"Oh, um, no. We barely heard it. It was too far away to stir up trouble here."</p><p>"Well that's a bit of luck," Newkirk said flatly. He checked his watch. "Cor, it's late. Is everyone else back yet?"</p><p>"Still waiting on the Colonel and Olsen," Kinch replied.</p><p>"Do you want us to wait with you? Keep you company?" Carter asked as he sat on the corner of Kinch's desk.</p><p>"No, that's okay. You guys head up and get some sleep."</p><p>"You sure?" Carter asked.</p><p>"The man already said no," Newkirk said. He slapped Carter's knee then jerked his thumb towards the ladder. "Let's go, mate. Night Kinch."</p><p>"Good night," Kinch said as Newkirk and Carter made their way up the ladder.</p><p>With a sigh, Kinch retired back to his chair. Three down, two to go. He tried not to let Carter's comments bug him. After all, the other Sergeant hadn't meant any harm. But it was small, seemingly inconsequential statements like that that really made Kinch question his place on the team. If he left tomorrow, the operation would continue on unaffected. Would anyone even notice he was gone?</p><p>Kinch mulled over his gloomy thoughts until he picked up the sounds of another set of footsteps coming down the tunnel. Kinch couldn't quite tell who they belonged to, but with a fifty-fifty chance, he guessed Olsen.</p><p>Instead Colonel Hogan soon came into view. The Colonel looked worried. No, that wasn't quite right. He looked perplexed, Kinch decided. Unsettled. Whatever it was, something was on the Colonels mind.</p><p>"Hi Colonel," Kinch greeted. "Everything all right?"</p><p>"What? Oh, yeah. Fine, Kinch, fine." Hogan said absently, but it was clear to Kinch that he was simply brushing off the question.</p><p>"You sure?"</p><p>"Yeah I just-" Hogan cut himself off with a huff and plastered a grin on his face. "I'm okay, Kinch. Just need some sleep to clear my head."</p><p>"Did you get what you needed from the underground?" Kinch pressed.</p><p>Hogan produced a roll of film from his pocket and tossed it to Kinch who easily caught it. "We'll develop it tomorrow. It's too late tonight."</p><p>Kinch nodded and set the film down. "You sure you're all right, Colonel?"</p><p>"Fine, fine. Everyone in for the night?"</p><p>"All except Olsen," Kinch reported.</p><p>Hogan glanced at his watch. "You think he's okay?" he asked, suddenly worried. "There was a bit of a raid on Hammelburg this afternoon, maybe he-"</p><p>"No, he sent a message. He's okay, just going to be later than expected," Kinch assured his commanding officer.</p><p>"Hmmm. All right, let's get up top."</p><p>"If it's all the same to you, Colonel, I think I'll wait up for him," Kinch replied. It was his job, after all, to wait. To wait until everyone was home safe and sound. To wait just in case they took too long and he had to organize a search party.</p><p>Hogan looked down the tunnel, the back at his watch. "I'll wait with you."</p><p>"Thanks, Colonel. But I think I'll just go develop the film now. Besides, there's no sense in both of us staying up."</p><p>Hogan tilted his head from side to side, then shrugged. "Fine. But don't wait too long. Olsen's a big boy. If he doesn't come back tonight, he'll have a reason."</p><p>"Sure. Good night, Colonel."</p><p>"Night, Kinch."</p><p>After Hogan left, Kinch grabbed the film and went to process it. He got back just in time to find Olsen trudging into the radio room. He looked tired and worn and more than a little dirty.</p><p>"Olsen? You all right?"</p><p>Olsen let out a little sigh. "Fine. Just spent the night digging out my neighbours." He gave Kinch a weak smile. "Not much of a merry Christmas in Hammelburg tonight. So," he pressed on before Kinch could get a word in, "is everyone else in the for night?"</p><p>"Yeah. The Colonel just got back an hour or so ago. You're the last one."</p><p>Olsen regarded him curiously. "Waiting up for me?"</p><p>Kinch couldn't help but sigh. "That's my job. LeBeau snags pheasants, Carter and Newkirk blow up bridges, the Colonel meets with the underground, and I wait." He regretted the bitterness in his voice; this wasn't really something he wanted to discuss with Olsen. Or anyone for that matter. Kinch looked away from Olsen's gaze. "Never mind."</p><p>But Olsen still had him fixed with a thoughtful look. "You know, sometimes it takes someone on the outside looking in to see the problem."</p><p>"I know the problem," Kinch said flatly as he gestured to himself. "I can't exactly pass for German. Hell, I can't even pass for a Dane."</p><p>Olsen half-grinned. "Well, don't beat yourself up over that- not even the Colonel could pull off a convincing Dane." Olsen's expression became serious again. "Look I know how you feel. Left out of the action. Being part of the group, but not quite."</p><p>"You're in on the action, Olsen," Kinch said tersely. In fact, Olsen was right in the thick of it- far more than any of them. Sure the Colonel and the others put their lives on the line nearly every day, but Olsen lived on the outside- he was in danger every minute.</p><p>"Not really. You may not believe this, but life outside is pretty boring." Kinch didn't quite believe him. "And I don't get to spend much time with, well, anyone. Except Max. And let me tell you, he's not great company. He's not even good company."</p><p>Now that Kinch believed. "I guess that must get lonely," Kinch said. Maybe Olsen did know how he felt.</p><p>"Tell me something: how many of the guys offered to stay down here with you?" Olsen asked. Before Kinch could answer, he continued. "And how many times did you turn them down?" Olsen's questions, which weren't really questions, felt like a slap, and Kinch ducked his head. "If you're feeling lonely, Kinch, maybe it's because you want to be lonely."</p><p>Kinch was about to reply, but stopped short. Was that true? And if it was, why? Kinch wasn't a very social man, but be didn't like being alone. But it was true- he had declined company tonight, while at the same time wishing he was part of the group.</p><p>"Maybe it's none of my business Kinch, but it's hard to feel a part of things when you push people away." Olsen paused, then knocked on Kinch's desk. "Well, it's late, or early, and I hear Santa only comes when all the good little boys and girls are asleep." He checked his watch. "Too late to bring down my replacement. What's his name? Walldecker? Anyway do me a favor and send him down before roll call. I gotta hit the sack."</p><p>Kinch wasn't sure if Olsen's quick getaway was because he was uncomfortable, or he simply wanted Kinch to stew in his thoughts. Either way, the outside man didn't look like he was going to stick around.</p><p>"Night, Kinch. Merry Christmas."</p><p>"Merry Christmas, Olsen," he replied. Olsen nodded and then ducked down a side tunnel to one of the private rooms.</p><p>All alone, Kinch stood next to his desk, pondering what Olsen had said. His role in the operation was a passive one and that grated on him. But if he wasn't careful, bitterness would stop his participation altogether. And it wasn't like it was anyone's fault, so there was no need to push them away. Saboteurs or not, they were all stuck together at Stalag 13, and that was not something anyone should go through alone.</p><p>So maybe next time, Kinch would welcome the company. It wouldn't change the big things. He'd still be left behind on missions, he'd still be tasked with holding down the fort, but maybe if he reached out a little more, he wouldn't feel left out. These were good men he worked with, and it couldn't hurt to let them into his life a little.</p><p>"All right. Time to join the team." Kinch nodded to himself, then climbed up to the barracks. Everyone was asleep when he got there. "Tomorrow," he amended in a whisper as he crawled into bed. Though roll call was only a few hours away, Kinch couldn't get to sleep, and he lay awake for quite some time, thinking- alone once again with his thoughts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Jack Frost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas 1944</strong>
</p><p>He remembered hearing about a Christmas, thirty years ago now, when the guns fell silent on the Western Front, and enemies united under a banner of peace, if only for a day.</p><p>But that was a different time. A different war. And today, there would be no peace.</p><p>A week ago, they had set up explosives along the train tracks to stop a very important shipment from reaching the front. But the train had been delayed until today. With the hardest part of the job already done, it was a one man job to finish it.</p><p>Crouched in the snow on the edge of the tree line, Carter released the plunger and blew into his hands. Right now it was quiet as snow lazily danced down from the sky, but it was getting colder and Carter knew that a blizzard was brewing. He hoped that the train would hurry so he could get back home to where it was safe and warm.</p><p>A muffled thump startled him until he realized it was just a tired tree branch unloading a heap of snow. With half a smile, he shook his head and turned his attention back to the train tracks. He didn't have to wait long. He felt the earth beneath him shake before the light from the train broke through the snow as it hurried down the track.</p><p>As always, Carter's heart stopped in anticipation. And then, as the train hit the perfect spot, Carter pushed down on the plunger box. A brilliant flash of light and a deafening roar filled the air as the dynamite exploded. Bits of flaming wreckage flew into the air and crashed into the snowy ground where it continued to burn and crackle.</p><p>Carter grinned and pat himself on the back. A job well done and a brilliant explosion to boot. What more could he ask for on Christmas?</p><p>Dusting off his hands, Carter unhooked the plunger box and tucked it under his arms. A freezing breeze whipped past him, whistling through the trees, and he shivered, hunkering down deep into his wool jacket. He better get back quick before he froze.</p><p>Picking his way through the brush, Carter started on his way back to Stalag 13. Every once in a while, he would shake a tree branch to cover the tracks he left in the snow.</p><p>He was nearly to the river when the sound of nearby voices caught his attention. Immediately, Carter dropped to the ground and listened. A German patrol. At least two. Apparently they didn't get Christmas off either.</p><p>Carter slowed his breathing and stayed still. He heard one German curse while the other laughed. From the following conversation, it sounded like one had pushed a branch out of the way, only to be hit when it suddenly snapped back after the snow fell off it.</p><p>Carter couldn't help but grin, imagining the comical scene in his head.</p><p>Carter waited. And waited. But they were still nearby. Slowly, he began to crawl forward, trying to put distance between them.</p><p>"Hey. What's this? Tracks?" he heard one say, too close to comfort.</p><p>"Saboteurs. The train!" the other replied.</p><p>Carter mentally cursed and slowly reached for his pistol.</p><p>"There!"</p><p>He knew he had been made when a shot rang out and smashed into the ground beside him. Jumping off, Carter let off a shot of his own. One of the Germans went down. The other, in shock, just stared at his companion, giving Carter a chance to make a break for it, abandoning the plunger box.</p><p>The crack of a rifle told Carter that the other soldier had pulled himself together and was chasing after him. Swiftly and surely, Carter ran through the forest, putting a decent gap between him and his pursuer, until he reached the river. Carter slid down the snowy bank and stopped himself just before he hit the water. While not very wide, the river was swollen and flowing rapidly, with ice clinging to its edges. There was a group of rocks peeking through the surface where he had crossed over earlier. Carter carefully hopped from rock to rock, nearly falling in before reaching a large boulder on the other side.</p><p>The riverbank here was a too steep to climb up. A few rocky outcroppings offered a path downstream to a shallow spot he could climb up. It wouldn't normally be a problem to traverse it even in the snow, but now he had someone after him. Too late, Carter realized he would have been safer in the woods. Fortunately, a large crevice in the bank offered him a place to hide, or at least a bit of protection for him to fire back if it came to it.</p><p>It didn't take long for the German to catch up to him. From his hiding spot, Carter could see him on the other side of the river, looking down at the water. Maybe the river would prove too intimidating and he would give up. Or maybe he would decide to go upstream to the bridge, even though it was nearly two miles away.</p><p>No such luck. The German shouldered his rifle and slid down the bank. He must have hit a patch of ice because he suddenly fell forward and rolled down the rest of the way, landing in the water with a splash. The swift current got a hold of him before he could surface and swept him downstream. He got caught on the rocks Carter had just used as a crossing and grabbed on for dear life, shouting for help.</p><p>Carter hesitated. It was one thing to shoot someone in self-defense, or to blow up a train, but he couldn't bring himself to stand idly by while someone shouted for help while drowning.</p><p>With his mind made up, Carter emerged from his hiding spot and carefully hopped back across the bridge of rocks. He steadied himself on the nearest rock and reached out for the German.</p><p>Though obviously terrified, the soldier also hesitated, looking at Carter in disbelief.</p><p>"Grab my hand," Carter ordered in German, shaking his hand slightly.</p><p>The German patrolman looked at him, then down the river before coming to a decision. Letting go of the rock with one hand, he reached out for Carter, who grabbed his hand and his wrist. Carter pulled, nearly falling off his own perch before he shifted his weight, resting one foot on the rock behind him. With a burst of strength, he managed to get the German out of the water.</p><p>"Come on." Carter pulled him to his feet, and waited until he was steady before leading him across the rocks. When they got to the other side they stared at each other. Even through the darkness, Carter could make him out fairly well and he felt his heart sink. The patrolman was just a boy. Maybe fourteen. He knew the Germans were getting desperate, but this was ridiculous. And if this one was only a boy, how old was the one he had shot in the forest.</p><p>Carter forced the thought out of his mind. He couldn't dwell on it.</p><p>The boy suddenly straightened as if he had snapped out of a dream and scrambled for his side arm, his rifle long gone. He pulled it out of his holster, but Carter smacked his hand and the gun went flying into the water.</p><p>"Don't be like that," Carter said. "Come on, there's a place we can climb up downstream."</p><p>The soldier stayed put, lips flapping silently as if he wasn't sure what to say in this situation.</p><p>"Come on," Carter tried again. "It's getting cold." To emphasize his point, a gust of wind whipped through the river corridor, slapping their faces with snow, which was starting to get heavier.</p><p>The German hugged himself and nodded. Carter prodded him forward and together they made jumped from rock to rock until the river bank became shallow enough for them to climb up. By that time, the boy was shivering miserably. His too big uniform was soaking wet and clinging to him awkwardly. He really was a pathetic sight.</p><p>Carter frowned. He couldn't just leave the kid in the middle of nowhere. But he definitely couldn't take him back to the camp.</p><p>"There's a barn not too far from here," Carter told him. "We can stay there until you warm up."</p><p>"And then?" the boy asked in a shaky voice.</p><p>"I suppose you can arrest me and be a hero," Carter said with a shrug, though he had no intention of sticking around that long.</p><p>Youthful pride tricked him into believing the lie and the boy nodded. "All right."</p><p>"Follow me," Carter said. Together they walked through the snow, and soon were in forest again which provided a bit of cover from what was quickly becoming a blizzard.</p><p>The trees were thinning and Carter could make out the barn when the boy stopped. Sitting on the ground, he wrapped his arms around himself. "It's too cold. Leave me here."</p><p>"We're almost there. Here." Carter shucked off his own coat and put it over the German's shoulders. "Come on." He didn't move, so Carter pulled him up and threw an arm over him, pulling him in close. The boy shivered and sniffed, but huddled closer to Carter.</p><p>"Why are you helping me?" the German asked as they shuffled along.</p><p>There were a million answers: because he wasn't a monster; it was the right thing to do; he was just a boy. But Carter simply settled on, "it's Christmas."</p><p>They finally reached the barn. Carter pushed open the door and the smell of hay and cow hit his nose. He had used this barn many times- for meeting the underground or hiding out- and every time, the smell made him horribly homesick.</p><p>There was a lantern near the door which Carter grabbed and lit. A warm glow encircled them and stretched out into the barn. Carter steered the boy into a pile of hay. The German flopped down, exhausted and cold, and took off his helmet, rubbing his hand through his hair and blowing out a breath. Carter covered him with more hay. Then, he grabbed a little tin cup that was perched on a wooden railing and filled it with fresh milk from the obliging cow.</p><p>"Here. A cup of warm milk will put you right."</p><p>The boy looked at the cup suspiciously, but eventually took it and drank it. The milk acted like a magic potion and the German nestled into the hay and, like that, fell asleep.</p><p>Carter sighed and looked at him in amusement. He could hear the wind outside and decided he could wait until the storm died down a bit before heading back out.</p><p>He sat in silence, contemplating the state of the war. Germany was recruiting children. The boy was just that- a boy. A boy forced to don a uniform and carry a gun for a madman. War was all they had ever really known. Even before the first shot was fired, the first country was invaded, the Nazis had been preparing. Preparing weapons, preparing plans, preparing young minds. The boy sleeping beside him had never known peace- not really. It wasn't his fault they were enemies, but they were enemies nonetheless.</p><p>How long, he wondered, would it take to teach these kids how to live a normal life once the war would over? How long would it take for them to learn the meaning of peace? Would this child even get the chance? Would he, and hundreds like him, even survive the war? Or would they be thrown at the advancing enemy like so much cannon fodder?</p><p>To combat the sudden wave of grief that washed over him, Carter began to hum a Christmas tune.</p><p>"Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace."</p><p>The German snuffled and snuggled deeper into the hay. Carter watched him sleeping serenely and sighed. Then, he leaned back against the hay and rested his eyes for a moment, basking in his own little Christmas truce. At some point, he dozed off.</p><p>A sixth sense suddenly sounded inside his head, his heart slammed into his chest and he suddenly sat up, wide awake. He whipped his head around and looked at his companion, who was also awake and had a knife in his hand.</p><p>Idiot. He hadn't searched the kid for other weapons.</p><p>The German lunged towards him. Carter grabbed his arm, keeping the knife away from him, and pulled the boy to the ground. The German struggled, trying to get his arm free so he could swipe at Carter with the knife, but Carter got on top of him and punched him once in the face. The kid had a glass jaw and went limp, dropping the knife to the ground.</p><p>Carter cursed his own stupidity again and scooped up the knife, tucking it into his belt. He checked his watch. 12:05. Christmas was over, and it was time to leave.</p><p>Carter slipped back outside. The wind and snow bit at his face and arms, but he didn't go back in to get his jacket. There was nothing in it to identify him. And it wasn't too far from camp; he would be cold, but he'd make it all right.</p><p>And besides, the kid needed the warmth more than he did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Every Mother's Child</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas 1944</strong>
</p><p>Newkirk rolled over and covered himself with his blanket, trying to shut out the merriment emanating from around the table. He didn't want to risk it infecting him; he couldn't cheer up. He didn't want to cheer up. It was nicer to be miserable.</p><p>On the best of days, Newkirk didn't exactly have a sunny personality. Being a prisoner of war didn't improve his disposition any. But around Christmas time, he became downright dour. The others knew not to prod him too much. He would eventually crawl out of his shell and join in on the festivities. He always did.</p><p>He wondered when he had grown so cynical about Christmas. Surely it hadn't always been that way. He reached far back into his memory, trying to grasp at the last happy Christmas he had. He vaguely remembered sitting in his mother's lap, a paper crown on his head, Mavis squished next to him, listening to the Christmas story in dim candle light. Somehow back then, there was always an orange in his stocking, and a new handmade coat or britches under the tree. Even in their cold damp flat, he remembered feeling warm and safe, wrapped in a blanket of love.</p><p>And then, one Christmas, <em>he</em> read the story, and there were no new clothes under the tree. Not long after, Mother was gone, along with any sense of stability and peace. He didn't think much of the holiday after that- there didn't seem to be much point in it.</p><p>And of course, there was that one Christmas, not too long ago, that shot him out of the sky and landed him as a prisoner of war.</p><p>The prospects of a letter didn't cheer him up. The only person who wrote him on a regular basis was Mavis, and her letters had, for some reason, dried up even before Schultz had concocted his little scheme. Sweethearts had stopped writing him long ago, and any friends he may have had before arriving at Stalag 13 were either busy fighting in the war, or dead because of it. So while everyone was swimming in letters, he would be lucky if he got one.</p><p>Jealously cast a shadow over his already dark mood.</p><p>"For Newkirk? Are you sure?" he heard Carter say.</p><p>"Says here Corporal Peter Newkirk," Kinch answered.</p><p>"Hey look at this." Carter asked. "Wonder what's going on."</p><p>"Here is another one. Trѐs étrange."</p><p>"Weird too," Carter echoed. "Do you think they planned this?"</p><p>"How could they?" LeBeau wondered.</p><p>"If they did, they didn't say anything to me," Kinch said. "Olsen? Goldman? Fuller?"</p><p>"Maybe the colonel put them up to it?" Private Lopez suggested.</p><p>"He would've told us though, wouldn't he?" Carter replied.</p><p>Newkirk didn't move, but the curiosity was eating him up. Obviously there was a letter, more than one, but why were they so confused. When they marvelled over yet another letter addressed to him, Newkirk caved.</p><p>"What are you prattling on about?" Newkirk groused without turning over.</p><p>"Oh, you are awake," Carter said brightly. "You've got some mail here."</p><p>"Course I do, Schultz was hoarding three months worth," Newkirk grumbled.</p><p>"Right, but... Well, here."</p><p>Newkirk felt something land near his feet. Letting out a sigh, he slowly sat up. A package and a pile of envelopes lay at the end of his bed.</p><p>"Blimey," he breathed in amazement, suddenly excited despite his bad mood. The others watched him anxiously as he grabbed a letter. 'Adele LeBeau' was written in shaky handwriting. He glanced over at LeBeau who shrugged and stood on his toes to try and get a better look at the letter himself. His curiosity turning into suspicion, Newkirk looked over the return addresses of the parcel. Carter. Other familiar names were on the rest of the letters.</p><p>Pity letters.</p><p>"What's this then?" Newkirk asked shortly. "Felt sorry for me so had your families write me for Christmas?"</p><p>"Gosh, I wouldn't do that, Newkirk," Carter protested innocently.</p><p>"Oui. I knew nothing of this," LeBeau added. The others gathered around echoed their ignorance.</p><p>Newkirk didn't believe them, but instead of saying something he knew he would regret, he just lay back down and covered himself up again.</p><p>He ignored the mail for the rest of the day except to ask the colonel about it. Colonel Hogan denied any knowledge. Everyone was obviously dying from curiosity, and frankly, he was too. But some sort of stubborn pride prevented him from opening it.</p><p>It wasn't until much later that he finally gathered it all up. The barracks was dark. Roll call was over and most of the men had turned in for the night. Carter was off to blow up a train, and Kinch had gone down to wait for him, inviting a few of the others to join him. But Newkirk decided to stay to himself. The usual Christmas activities had softened him up, but had also drained him.</p><p>So he threw another piece of wood in the little stove, lit a candle, and settled himself on the bench, trying to soak in a bit of warmth.</p><p>He looked over the envelope from Adele LeBeau. It was probably his imagination, but it faintly smelled like fresh baked bread. The words were written with shaky penmanship that still had hints of elegance, now lost with age. Newkirk held it closer to the candle to see it better.</p><p>
  <em>Mon Cher Pierre,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Excuse my English please. It is not good but I will try to be understood.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I was at church in prayer for my son. I saw a vision of you. It was strange because I never have seen you. And yet I knew it was you. In that moment I felt the same tenderness for you as I feel for my son.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You may find that strange, but for many years you have been a friend to Louis. I think that perhaps I owe you for saving his life many times. Louis hates the war. He hates the camp. But often it is true friendship which lends one the strength to carry on.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You have both been at the camp for many years, longer than the Americans who have joined our fight at last. Losing one's freedom is a crushing blow. Yet somehow I believe that you have never lost the will to fight for what is right and just in our world. I know my Louis, and I know his choice in friends. He has a spark, and I think you do too. Keep a flame burning in your hearts and you will prevail.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I thank God for you. I pray for you. Be safe. And when you are melancholy, remember a little old woman in France has you in her heart.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Tendresse,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Maman</em>
</p><p>Newkirk folded the letter back up and shoved it in its envelope. He wasn't sure what to make of a little old lady claiming to have visions of him.</p><p>Besides, she had it all wrong: the only thing that kept any of them from going crazy was the mission. LeBeau would have been fine without him; Mrs. LeBeau should have sent the letter to Colonel Hogan.</p><p>Despite his doubts, he grabbed another letter. Curious. It was from Mrs. Goldman. He couldn't fathom why she would be writing him. To be fair, he didn't know why any of them were writing him. He was on good terms with Goldman- he might even venture far enough to say they were friendly- but friendly enough to receive a letter from his mother?</p><p>
  <em>Dear Peter,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hope this letter finds you well – as well as anyone can be while locked up in a POW camp. I've heard so much about all of you that I feel like a surrogate mother to every one of you. I hear so much about life in your barracks from Roy. You're his family now; from his bunk mate to the man who is the senior POW officer. (He speaks very highly of Colonel Hogan, and I'm glad that there's someone there to watch out for everyone.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know it may seem odd to receive a letter from the mother of one of your bunk mates. But, during this holiday season, when I know you must be missing your home and your family, I wanted to write to you personally.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Roy has mentioned you multiple times in his letters. He told me you took him under your wing when he arrived in camp. I know how terrified he was. He must've been because </em>
  <strong>
    <em>CENSORED.</em>
  </strong>
  <em> Although he didn't say it in his letters, how could he not be? And a mother can read between the lines.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The two of you have something in common. He's spoken of how you and he compare notes of the two wonderful cities we both call home. You being from the East End of London, and Roy being born in the East Side of New York. (Yes, I know we now live in Brooklyn, but Manhattan and the East Side will always be part of our family.)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Food, of course, is a common denominator. And you and your family have this in common with our family. I'm not talking about English dishes, but </em>
  <strong>
    <em>CENSORED</em>
  </strong>
  <em>.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He's told me of your magic tricks, and how you patiently tried to teach him how to manipulate a deck of cards. I can see you both dissolving in laughter; I guess Roy's hand and eye coordination does not extend to that particular skill. He's told me of the friendly arguments you've had over baseball and football – well your football-what we call soccer. And how you tried to explain cricket to him, although he still has no understanding of the rules.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Most of all-he values your friendship. He did mention how you came to his defense not long after he arrived in camp. Another prisoner called him-well I cannot repeat the word. Not that it was in the letter, but I know what Roy meant. I honestly cried when I read that part of Roy's letter. But, I never heard another word about it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I do hope that particular prisoner learned his lesson and that his nose finally healed. And I know you and your other mates have defended other men as well. I know your colonel will not allow these incidents to go unpunished.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CENSORED other holidays CENSORED.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We are saying prayers for all of you CENSORED.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From our family to you and yours, Peter. Happy Christmas.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Emma Goldman</em>
</p><p>Newkirk let the letter hang from his fingers as he pondered its contents. He peered through the dark to where Goldman was snoring loudly in his bunk.</p><p>To him, it hadn't been a big thing to stand up for Goldman. But he supposed if everyone thought that way, there would've been no need to stand up for him in the first place.</p><p>Still, Newkirk had never really considered himself anything special. And certainly he wasn't worth all this praise and adoration.</p><p>He took another letter from the pile.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Cpl. Peter Newkirk,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, dear. What a terribly stiff way to begin. But how does a body go about addressing a letter to a total stranger? I've known enough military men to suspect that 'Mister' would be vaguely insulting, but 'Corporal' sounds as though I'm asking you to salute, and jumping straight to a first name basis isn't all that polite, either. So I finally settled for including all three, and letting you choose which you prefer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me introduce myself. I'm Mrs. Emily Hogan; I'm sure you can figure out where, and from whom, I got your name.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Rob has mentioned you—all of you—rather a lot in his letters, and in some ways I feel as if I know you already. Of course, between the censors and what I suspect Robert deliberately leave out, it's a frustratingly incomplete picture, but I believe I've gotten the gist. A mother can always read between the lines… or, rather, times being what they are, read between the gaping holes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One of the things I read—often—is how important you are to Rob. It sometimes seems that every couple of paragraphs, it's 'Newkirk did this' and 'Newkirk said that.' Most of it highly flattering, don't you worry about that! Although, if you'll allow an old lady to poke her nose into your business, it sounds to me like you smoke far too much. That's not at all good for you—it'll stunt your growth. There, I'll stop meddling now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But leaving that aside, a blind man could see how much he depends on you. And how truly, deeply merited that trust is. I can never thank you enough for that—both for keeping his spirits up, and for giving him someone to lean on when it all becomes too much. Rob is lucky—no, no, Rob is blessed—to have someone like you beside him. Especially at this time of year, when we're all trying to believe that peace on earth is more than a pretty fairy tale, and trying not to wonder how long your chairs will be empty. It helps me more than I can say to know that he is among true friends.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I can't even imagine what life in that terrible place must be like. Rob leaves out as many of those details as he can, and to be honest, I'm probably better off not knowing. But I know that he's doing everything he can to make things better for his men. That's where you come in.</em>
  <em>Because, as I said, I feel that I know all you boys, just from what I hear from Rob. And from what he tells me, it sounds as though you've been doing everything you can to make things better for him. That's a rare thing, a friend like that, and I thank God every night that he was lucky enough to fall in with such a fine, upstanding, great-hearted young man. As the Bible puts it, "Woe to him who is alone when he falls, for he will have no one to help him up."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Notice that it doesn't say 'if.' It says 'when.' We all fall from time to time. Some of us are lucky enough to have someone to help us up. Rob is one of them, and for that I owe you a greater debt than I can ever even begin to repay. I'm glad, from the bottom of my heart, that my son has a friend like you, and I would have been proud to have a son like you. You are a good man, Peter Newkirk and someday I hope to get the chance to meet you in person instead of through Rob's letters. Until that day arrives, I hope you'll give me the chance to get to know you through your own letters, too. I'm told that somebody called </em>
  <strong>
    <em>CENSORED</em>
  </strong>
  <em> steals anything edible out of care packages, but I can always try camouflaging the cake under a few pairs of socks; maybe he won't find them there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Be well, Peter, and be safe. I am praying for you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours very truly,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Emily Hogan</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PS: As regards those interesting details that Robert probably leaves out, I'm counting on you to tell me if there's anything important that I ought to know. I'm trusting your judgment… and your discretion. Thank you in advance!</em>
</p><p>Putting the letter down, Newkirk felt unsettled.</p><p>These mothers seemed to view him as some sort of protector- someone who would keep their sons safe until the war was over. It was a tall order and a lot of responsibility that Newkirk knew he wasn't equipped to handle.</p><p>And so he hesitated before grabbing the package. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear more- to have the weight of their trust and hope on his shoulders. But he summoned his courage and opened the parcel. Inside was a folded paper sitting atop something knitted.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Peter,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Merry Christmas from North Dakota! At least, it will be Christmas by the time this letter reaches you. It's early November as I write it, but already the long driveway leading from the front porch of our farmhouse all the way out to the county road is covered in snow, so it actually looks a lot like Christmas. Tomorrow my husband will have to attach the snow plow to the front of the tractor to clear a path. At times like these, we sure do miss having our young man at home to help with the heavy jobs on a farm.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, I haven't introduced myself, have I? Well, you've probably already figured out from the return address that I'm Sgt. Andrew Carter's mother. It's nice to meet you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I realize you're probably not used to strange women from America writing you letters and calling you by your first name. But you're one of Andy's friends, so calling you Peter seems to the natural thing to do. I hope you don't mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The reason I'm writing is that Christmas is a special time for families, and it's a time for letting loved ones know how much they mean to us. Peter, you're dear to me because you are Andrew's brother. As his mom, it's reassuring to know that even though my son is halfway around the world, he has someone looking out for him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You're probably wondering why I think you're practically brothers. Well, Peter, a mother knows her children, and one thing I know for sure about my Andrew is that the boy can talk and talk and talk about the things that matter to him. One person he talks about constantly in his letters is you.</em>
  <em>He says you throw around a baseball with him even though you've never played baseball in your life. And that you share your cigarettes, which I really wish you wouldn't do, even if it is a nice gesture, but he definitely appreciates it. And that you share the same bunk and often get assigned to the same duties around camp. And he says you're good at magic and card tricks and other forms of sleight of hand. Andrew is sort of a wide-eyed kid deep down, and he sure is impressed with you!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But here's why I think he really looks up to you. He says you're very protective of everyone and you always have his back, even when you get ticked off at him.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When Andrew told me his buddy's name was Peter, and I just had to smile. I always thought Andrew and Peter were perfect names for brothers because in the Gospels they WERE brothers! Of course, Peter in the Bible is very strong-willed, impulsive and brash, always getting into trouble but eventually doing the right thing in kind of a big way. Wouldn't it be something if you were like that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Andrew says you've been away from home longer than almost anyone in the Stalag. That breaks my heart, and I hope all of you boys can go home soon. In the meantime, please know that you've got a brother right there with you and a mom in North Dakota who is praying for your safe return.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ila May Carter</em>
</p><p>
  <em>P.S. Rebecca insisted on making a scarf for you. I'm sorry it's so long- she tends to get carried away.</em>
</p><p>Newkirk pulled at the scarf. And pulled. And pulled. "Bloody hell," he whispered when the last of it finally came out of the box. "Did she use all the yarn North Dakota?" The monstrosity was halfway to being a blanket. Carried away was an understatement. But then again, did that really surprise him?</p><p>Another letter beckoned to be opened.</p><p>
  <em>Dear Peter,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sergeant James Kinchloe is my son. I hope you don't mind receiving a letter from me. He's mentioned to me that, among his closest friends, you're the only one whose mother has passed away. And while I have no doubt, based on his comments, that you receive a steady stream of letters from girlfriends and from your dear sister, there are some words only a mother can say.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stand up straight. Hold your head up high. Do what is right. Have faith.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Did you mother say words like those to you? I imagine she did. We all have that in common. Boys learn what it means to be a man from their fathers, but they learn why it matters from their mothers. We start out holding you, so small, and then we end up looking up at you, so big and strong. We want you to go out into the world with all the confidence and determination we saw the first time you took a step, the first time you built a tower out of blocks, the first time you read a sentence on your own, the first time you kissed us goodbye in your smart new uniform.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We raise you up to love and protect those who need you. And right now, the whole world needs you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It may not feel that way, from inside the walls of a prison camp. You may not feel needed or strong. But your heart and mind can overcome all obstacles. There's a verse that begins, "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage." Perhaps you learned it in school, like James and his brothers did. Rising above your situation is never easy, but it is liberating.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I imagine these are the words your mother would want you to hear because they're the words I want to tell my own sons. Therefore, if I may be so bold, I will temporarily adopt you so I may pass on this wisdom. I would consider it an honor if you would accept it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And so I repeat the words I want my son, </em>
  <strong>
    <em>you</em>
  </strong>
  <em> dear Peter, to hear:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Stand up straight. Hold your head up high. Do what is right. Have faith. And know you are cherished.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Harriet Kinchloe</em>
</p><p>He wasn't sure if it was something in the last letter, or if maybe he was beginning to see a theme, but a sudden burst of realization dawned on Newkirk. These mothers, strangers, loved him because he first loved them. Not directly of course- he had never met them- but he imagined that the best way to show love to a mother was to love her children.</p><p>These mothers could see as clear as day something that Newkirk was only just beginning to realize: he did love these men. And they loved him. Heaven help him, for some reason, they loved him too. Over the years they had become more than fellow prisoners and more than friends; they truly had become brothers.</p><p>It should not have taken him this long to realize it. Of course it shouldn't have; he already knew he would die for, and most likely without, these men. These men inspired him to do better, to be better, and actually believe he could succeed. But he had never translated what that really meant: love.</p><p>The realization was at once uncomfortable and enlightening. It meant he had a responsibility to take care of them, just as these mothers believed he would. But it also gave him a sense of peace- the peace of knowing that, even in the heart of Germany, he was loved and the men around him would do everything they could to see him safely to the end.</p><p>There were more letters to read. And though the barracks was cold and dark, he was wrapped in a blanket of love, woven together by the hearts of a dozen mothers he had never met.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to Abracadebra, Signy1, and Snooky for their wonderful letters!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. And Some Mistletoe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas Eve 1944</strong>
</p><p>A bitterly cold wind ripped through the city streets, whirled around Olsen, and then carried on its way. Olsen shuddered and hunched his shoulders, trying to protect himself from the cold. His jacket, threadbare and worn, offered little warmth. He longed for this wool coat back at Stalag 13 which was in slightly better condition, but it would stand out; no one had adequate clothing anymore.</p><p>Five years of war had taken its toll and Germany was crumbling under the weight. Although there had recently been some good news from the Western Front, no one really believed that Germany would prevail. It was a waiting game now: a question of not if, but when.</p><p>And who.</p><p>Who would march into Hammelburg first? The Russians, who hacked away at the Eastern Front, or the Americans and Brits, who were temporarily stymied on the Western Front.</p><p>A deep sense of gloom hung over the town. Refugees, fleeing the East, crammed into crumbling buildings with anyone who would take them in, sharing their horror stories in hushed, but frantic whispers. Hunger, fear, and exhaustion were etched onto the faces of everyone he encountered. He was a grocer in name only now- the shelves of his store rarely held anything unless he managed to get a small drop of essentials from London.</p><p>To add to the desperation, the local Gestapo had increased their efforts to finally capture the elusive Papa Bear. Innocent civilians, who Olsen knew were in no way connected to the operation, were routinely pulled off the streets. If they were lucky, they were merely questioned and released. But a few simply disappeared.</p><p>So far Olsen had been safe. He kept a good relationship with the Gestapo, proving himself to be an invaluable informant. Of course, it had all been a ruse: using lies and planted evidence, he had manipulated the Gestapo into eliminating threats to Papa Bear's organization before they even showed up on Colonel Hogan's radar. It was a grimy business, but someone had to do it.</p><p>Recently, however, Berlin had sent more agents to bolster their efforts, and Olsen felt like it was only a matter of time before they turned their suspicions on him.</p><p>Which made his caper tonight all the more dangerous.</p><p>In a big, heavy gunny sack slung over his shoulder, there were loaves of bread, tins of meat, cheese, apples, and chocolate. Oh yes, grocer or not, the new Gestapo agents would be very interested in how he had scrounged all this food- especially the chocolate.</p><p>It was dangerous, too, for the people who would receive the parcels of food. But food was running low everywhere, and he figured it was worth the risk. And while the little bundle wouldn't go very far, it was better than nothing.</p><p>And the chocolate? Well, maybe it would give a frightened child a bit of peace and hope on Christmas.</p><p>And so, under the cover of darkness, he went from house to house, dropping food off to those he knew needed it the most. He ran the risk of getting caught by knocking after setting the food on the doorstep, but if he just left it, there was a chance it would be stolen. Or catch the eye of the Gestapo. Fortunately, people were never in a hurry to open their doors now days.</p><p>He wondered what Colonel Hogan would think of his little mission of mercy. He remembered when he was first assigned as the outside man. "Don't turn traitor," Hogan had warned him. Olsen only laughed. Literally born on the fourth of July, he was as American as baseball and apple pie. His immigrant parents loved their adopted country and made sure he knew how blessed he was to be born in the land of the free and home of the brave. It was lucky he had never been injured while under cover because he was sure he bled red, white, and blue.</p><p>But two years undercover made it hard to keep his distance. While he would never, ever accept or sympathise with Nazi ideology, he had a hard time viewing the ordinary people with whom he interacted as his enemies.</p><p>He couldn't hate the little children who laughed in the school yard, or the old woman who pat his hand as he helped her across the street. It was hard to remember that the man working frantically with him to dig out a family buried in the rubble was his ideological opponent. And his heart broke for the widowed mother who cried when he slipped an extra potato into her grocery order.</p><p>If that made him a traitor, then so be it.</p><p>His bag grew lighter and lighter as he made his way through town. Finally he was down to his last bundle, tied all together with a red ribbon and a sprig of mistletoe. A silly addition. And an indication that he had become too attached to his cover life- and the people in it.</p><p>Maybe it was coincidence, or maybe subconsciously he wanted to get caught, but the door opened before he could make it down the steps.</p><p>"Hello? Jannik? Is that you?"</p><p>Olsen stopped and turned to see Frau Werner standing in the doorway, a candle in one hand while the other tried to adjust her shawl to better protect herself from the cold.</p><p>"Oh, it is you. What are you doing out in this weather? And so late?"</p><p>He hurried back up the steps and slid up to her. "I'm on a secret mission," he whispered conspiratorially, making a show of looking around suspiciously.</p><p>"A wha- a secret mission?" she repeated, immediately dropping her voice and grasping her shawl even tighter.</p><p>He nodded. "For Julemanden."</p><p>"Julemanden?"</p><p>"Santa Claus," he clarified, before pointing down at their feet.</p><p>She looked down. "What is this?"</p><p>Before she could do it herself, Olsen quickly scooped up the bundle of food, and ushered her inside and out of the cold. "A Christmas present," he explained as he closed the door behind them.</p><p>She held her candle out a little closer to him to get a better look. "Meat? Cheese? But where did you get all this?"</p><p>He shook his bag. "I stole Santa's sack," he grinned.</p><p>She didn't look amused. "Really, be serious. You must have got it somewhere. The black market? Oh, Jannik, you could be shot. Or worse."</p><p>"Nothing like that: I found it buried in a pirate's chest. It's probably a hundred years old," he said. "On second thought, perhaps I shouldn't give it to you."</p><p>"Always a game with you," she said with a sigh.</p><p>"Really, it's all right, Lorelei," he insisted. "Will you please just take it?" When she hesitated, he continued. "I heard you took in the Hass children."</p><p>"And Frau Holderman," she confirmed with a nod.</p><p>"See? You need this more than I do. Take it." Cutting off any further objections, he strode into the kitchen and set the bundle down on the counter. She followed but hesitated in the entryway, looking around as if the walls had eyes and ears. She set her candle down next to the food, and then hurried to a cupboard, where she pulled out a large ceramic jar.</p><p>"Put it in here, if you insist on my having it. I don't really trust Frau Holderman."</p><p>Olsen frowned. "Do you think she'll go to the Gestapo?"</p><p>Lorelei shook her head. "No, I'm just afraid she'll eat it all."</p><p>"Someone ought to tell her there's a war going on," Olsen muttered as he undid the package and began filling the jar. "I'm going to Berlin tomorrow. Maybe I'll try to find some coal and some flour. Do the children need boots?"</p><p>"I wish you wouldn't. It's too dangerous."</p><p>She was right. Thus far, keeping a low profile had kept him alive. But it was hard to stand by and do nothing while his neighbours went cold and hungry. And he knew things were only going to get worse as the end of the war drew closer.</p><p>Most of all, he couldn't bear the thought of her suffering. Despite his best efforts and against his better judgement, over the last year he had been helpless as he fell in love with this woman. It was too late to back away now- he was in too deep. A dangerous position for any man, but especially a spy in enemy territory.</p><p>"All right, if you don't want me to, I won't."</p><p>"Good." She rested her hand on his and gave it a little squeeze. "What's this?" she suddenly asked, picking up the mistletoe from the counter.</p><p>"Mistletoe," he replied, taking it from her. "Here, I'll show you how it works."</p><p>"I <em>know</em> how it works," she said, exasperated.</p><p>"Well then, you also know it's bad luck to refuse a kiss while under it," he said, holding it up high.</p><p>She sighed. "Another game, Jannik?"</p><p>"The most dangerous one," he said as he leaned closer and gently stroked a curly lock of her hair.</p><p>It was crazy. She was married. She was the enemy. And if she ever found out who and what he was, she might never speak to him again- or worse. But any good sense he had left flew out the window when she bridged the gap and their lips met.</p><p>And, for just a moment, there was no war, no hunger, no cold, and no fear- just two people kissing under the mistletoe at Christmas.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. It's Been Said Many Times</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Christmas 1941</strong>
</p><p>The war will be over by Christmas.</p><p>He remembered saying that a lifetime ago when he was young, and eager to march off to war. He remembered how handsome he looked in his shiny new uniform, with his shiny new gun. The war was a lark. An adventure. A laugh.</p><p>And then Christmas came. And went. And by the next Christmas, all hope seemed lost. The war wouldn't end by that Christmas, or even the next. The notion of peace on earth had been replaced by the reality of hell on earth. A hell of rats, lice, mud and death. So much death.</p><p>It was perhaps a cruel twist of fate that the war did end just in time for Christmas. But it was a Christmas overshadowed by humiliation, despair, and defeat.</p><p>The sting of defeat eventually healed over. He was never one to wallow in gloom. He persevered through the hard times and it wasn't long until Christmas was bright and happy again.</p><p>And then another war. And he heard the same chatter in the streets.</p><p>The war will be over by Christmas.</p><p>He knew better than to believe it. And his heart hurt for the eager boys who looked so handsome in their shiny new uniforms with their shiny new guns.</p><p>But this time, they claimed one swift victory after another and he thought that, perhaps, this time it would be true. That not only would the war be over by Christmas, but that it would end in triumph.</p><p>Again, Christmas came and went and the war remained. England refused to fall. "We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight them on the landing grounds." (Don't ask how he had heard those words; he knew nothing!) Englanders were so stubborn.</p><p>At least this time he could sit it out. He was too old, too fat and, frankly, too successful to be drafted.</p><p>And then, in the summer, the government shut down his toy company. Commandeered his factory. For the war effort they said. And as compensation?</p><p>A shiny new uniform and a shiny new gun, and a sergeant's pay.</p><p>Schultz let out a long sigh as he looked at himself in the mirror. He supposed he should be grateful that he wasn't near any fighting. A guard at a prison camp proved to be a relatively easy job.</p><p>Straightening his uniform, Schultz gave himself another look in the mirror before he left his quarters and hurried to the Kommandant's office.</p><p>"You're late, Sergeant," Kommandant Ruger said without looking up at his papers.</p><p>"I am sorry, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said quickly as he offered a salute.</p><p>"Any report from the night guard?"</p><p>"No sir. It was a very quiet night," Schultz informed him. "All the prisoners were sleeping like little children. Dreaming of sugar plums and sleigh b-" Ruger looked up and glared at him. "I mean, that is... They were... The prisoners-"</p><p>The Kommandant had no patience for his stammering. "It sounds as if prisoner morale is good."</p><p>"I would not say good, Herr Kommandant. But it's Christmas."</p><p>"Is it? I would think it would be terribly depressing to be a prisoner at Christmas."</p><p>"Oh, I am sure. But hope is the spirit of Christmas. Hope, good will-"</p><p>"I see," Ruger interrupted. "Have the prisoners heard about the Americans?"</p><p>Schultz shook his head. "Not yet. We have not said a thing as per your orders. And we have not had any new prisoners in a month."</p><p>"Good. Let's keep it that way for a while. This Christmas Spirit you speak of is too dangerous already."</p><p>"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said, feeling deflated. The Kommandant ruled the camp with an iron fist, but a man without hope was a man with nothing to live for. Just last week two prisoners had been shot while trying to escape.</p><p>"Tell me, Sergeant, how many prisoners are in the cooler?" Ruger asked.</p><p>Schultz mentally tallied them up. "Thirteen."</p><p>"Well, seeing as it is Christmas, perhaps we should release them to their barracks. So they can spend the holiday with the other prisoners," Ruger said.</p><p>It was such an abrupt shift from his previous disdain for the holiday that Schultz wasn't sure what to say. But finally he smiled and let out a small, relieved chuckle." Oh that would be very nice, Herr Kommandant!"</p><p>"Indeed. Well, go to it. Give them a few minutes to get settled and then I want a roll call."</p><p>"Jawohl!" Schultz offered him a salute and then dashed out the door. He quickly cross the compound to the cooler. "The Kommandant says to release the prisoners," he told Private Keller.</p><p>He and the private set about unlocking a the cells.</p><p>"Cor, that's bright."</p><p>It wasn't really, but Schultz supposed even the dim bulbs in the hallway would be bright to a man who had just spent two week in total solitary confinement.</p><p>"Corporal Newkirk, the Kommandant says you can go back to your barracks."</p><p>"A month already?" the Englishman asked as he stood and stretched his lanky body.</p><p>"No, but it is Christmas," Schultz replied.</p><p>"Oh well that's uncharacteristically generous of him."</p><p>"Oui, perhaps Père Noël gave him a heart for Christmas," said Corporal Lebeau as he emerged from his cell.</p><p>"Fat chance of that," Newkirk scoffed. "Well, lead on, Schultzie. Come on, lads." The group marched out of the cooler and went their separate ways back to their barracks.</p><p>Schultz gave them ten minutes before he ordered the roll call.</p><p>Slowly men trickled out of their barracks and formed their lines. They shuffled in place and hunched their shoulders, trying to keep themselves warm in the cold. Schultz, too, tried to sink deeper into his uniform as a cold breeze sent shivers through his body.</p><p>Schultz quickly counted the men in his assigned huts, stopping when he came to Barracks 2. All present and accounted for. The other guards signalled that their count was also correct.</p><p>Satisfied, he turned on his heel and wait for Kommandant Ruger. And waited. And after five minutes he thought that maybe he should go fetch him. But then he appeared, standing on his porch and looking over the prisoners.</p><p>"Sergeant Schultz, report," he ordered as he stepped into the compound.</p><p>Schultz saluted. "All present and accounted for."</p><p>"Are you sure? Count them again."</p><p>Schultz hesitated. He was sure the count was correct. But he wasn't the Kommandant. So he ordered another count. "All present, Herr Kommandant."</p><p>"I see."</p><p>There was a long pause. Finally Schultz summoned a little courage. "May I dismiss the prisoners, Herr Kommandant?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"No?" Schultz repeated.</p><p>"Not yet." And with that, Ruger left and went back into the Kommandantur.</p><p>An hour later he still had not dismissed them. The prisoners, cold and doubtlessly hungry, went from murmuring to loudly complaining. But they knew better than to do any more than that. Ruger was not a man to test.</p><p>Finally, several hours later, long after the prisoners had given up, Ruger came back out. "You may dismiss the prisoners now, Sergeant Schultz. And, please, wish them a very Merry Christmas for me."</p><p>"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant," Schultz said tightly, trying very hard to keep his temper as Ruger left.</p><p>That horrible, no good- he had done it on purpose. To quash whatever good feelings Christmas brought to the camp.</p><p>"Dismissed," Schultz bellowed.</p><p>He heard a collective sigh. And then he heard someone drop to the ground. He turned to see Newkirk and Lawson helping Fuller up. "Easy there, mate," Lawson said.</p><p>"That ruddy Kraut bastard," Newkirk growled. But the fire in his eyes burned out quickly. Even Newkirk's will had taken a beating today.</p><p>Demoralized, the men began to shuffle back inside. And the sight was so pathetic and heartbreaking that it made something inside Schultz snap.</p><p>"Corporal Langenscheidt!" he yelled.</p><p>Langenscheidt scurried over and offered a salute. "Yes, Sergeant?"</p><p>"Corporal Langenscheidt," Schultz said loudly, "I must remind you of the Kommandant's order not to tell the prisoners about the Americans!"</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye he saw the prisoners stop and look at each other in confusion.</p><p>"I did not say anything, Sergeant!" Langenscheidt insisted.</p><p>"Quiet! I am giving the orders! No matter what, under no circumstances are you to tell them that the Americans have joined England in the war against the Fatherland. Is that understood?"</p><p>He sounded so fierce that it was more than just the cold causing Langenscheidt to shake in his boots." Jawohl, Sergeant!"</p><p>"Good. Now tell everyone the orders! Hmph!"</p><p>Langenscheidt nodded and hurried off. Schultz snorted and growled and turned a dangerous eye to the prisoners who were pretending not to listen. "And what are you still doing out here? Back into the barracks, back, back, back!"</p><p>Stunned, either at the news or Schultz's fierce demeanour, the prisoners nodded dumbly and hurried back into their hut. Schultz waited and then pressed his ear to the door.</p><p>"Do you think it's true?" he heard a muffled voice say.</p><p>"Blimey, the Americans have joined the war?"</p><p>"'Bout bloody time!"</p><p>"Always late those Yanks."</p><p>"Bloody hell, what if it is true!"</p><p>"Maybe we'll be having our next Christmas at home!"</p><p>A cheer went up.</p><p>"Here's to Christmas in London! What do you say to that, boys?"</p><p>Schultz shook his head. He knew the war wouldn't be over by next Christmas. Maybe not even the one after that. America's eager young men, in their shiny new uniforms and with their shiny new guns, would just stretch out the war, slowing down Germany's inevitable victory.</p><p>He felt a little guilty giving them nothing but false hope for Christmas.</p><p>But, false or not, when he heard the men break out into a joyful carol, Schultz grabbed onto that bit of hope as it floated by.</p><p>Because without hope what else was there?</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Make the Season Bright</h2></a>
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  <strong>Christmas 1943</strong>
</p><p>LeBeau remembered his first Christmas as a prisoner of war. The day should have been spent with family and friends, gathered around a cozy fire, singing carols, attending mass, and eating the most delicious food. Instead, it was spent shivering around an inadequate wood stove, crammed in a small hut with twenty strangers eating a meal that was more sawdust than food.</p><p>He wasn't sure how he had survived it- the humiliation, the loneliness, the homesickness, the hopelessness. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he had died- at least on the inside. Because the next Christmas, despite their attempts to make the best of the situation, he felt numb. Same with the Christmas after that.</p><p>But this Christmas- this Christmas would be different. He was alive again. This year there was a fire in his heart. This Christmas was different because Colonel Hogan was here. And with him, a new lease on life, a new way to fight the war, a new way to keep hope alive. This Christmas, he would be spending time with family- men who had become like brothers to him in a few short months.</p><p>He had been so excited for this Christmas that he almost forgot that it would be the first one in captivity for most of the Americans in camp. And when he did realize it he didn't think too much about it. After all, there was no way their first year could even compare to his. What did they have to complain about? This year would be paradisiacal compared to that first year.</p><p>And then, earlier that month, Carter had received a package from home containing gingerbread men. Though he tried to hide it, Carter had been teary-eyed after reading the accompanying letter and he started to wax poetic about Christmases at home. LeBeau remembered tuning him out- he had heard enough of Carter's stories to last a lifetime. But then he noticed that, instead of following his lead, the other men had gathered around, listening as they munched on the stale cookies that Carter had generously shared. Carter's stories prompted their own wistful recollections of Christmases at home and, by the end of it, most of the men had mysteriously come down with allergies that made them tear up and sniffle.</p><p>He'd been tempted to scold them and tell them all that it could have been worse- that they hadn't been there that first year, or the second, or the third. How dare they complain when, in comparison, they had it so easy.</p><p>Instead he had complained to Newkirk. Newkirk would understand- this would be the Englander's third Christmas in camp, and he remembered the bad old days just as well as LeBeau. But Newkirk had simply lit a cigarette and remained quiet while LeBeau ranted.</p><p>"You're right," Newkirk said after LeBeau stopped for breath. "We had it a lot worse."</p><p>"Yes. Thank you!" LeBeau cried. "They have no idea how bad it could be. They are lucky!"</p><p>"I wouldn't call it luck, mate. It's still pretty rotten to be here, away from hearth and home."</p><p>"Of course it is," LeBeau said. "But there is food enough and Colonel Hogan is here and we are doing something and Klink is nothing compared to Ruger!"</p><p>"You're right, you're right," Newkirk said, nodding sagely. Then he slapped his knee and jumped up. "Well then, we'd best get to work! Come on."</p><p>LeBeau tilted his head in confusion, but followed after Newkirk anyway. "Work? What work?"</p><p>"It shouldn't be too hard to get Klink in trouble," Newkirk explained. "We put our heads together, we can have him off to the Russian Front by morning."</p><p>LeBeau stopped and looked at Newkirk as if he were crazy. "What?!"</p><p>Newkirk stopped too and turned to look at him impatiently. "So we can get a new kommandant. One less like Klink and more like Ruger was. That'll teach the Yanks how easy they've had it, won't it?"</p><p>Now LeBeau was really convinced Newkirk was crazy. "Are you out of your head?! What has gotten into you?"</p><p>Newkirk shrugged. "Come on, it'll be good for them. We suffered, so they should suffer. Maybe they'll stop complaining so much when they know how bad it can really be."</p><p>"No, no, no, that is not what I want at all," LeBeau insisted.</p><p>Newkirk put his hands on his hips and pegged LeBeau with a skeptical look. "Then what do you want?" he asked.</p><p>LeBeau sputtered and tried to put into words exactly what he was feeling, but the truth was, he didn't quite know what he wanted. He wanted the Americans to acknowledge what they had been through. He wanted them to know how lucky they were. But he never, not in a million years, wanted them to experience the same thing.</p><p>"I think what those lads really need is a bit of compassion, not punishment for not having our misfortune," Newkirk said. "Just because it's not <em>as</em> hard for them, doesn't mean it's not hard at all."</p><p>LeBeau had wanted to fight Newkirk's words. But as the days passed, and he watched the Americans grapple with their heartaches, he realized that Newkirk may have had a point. After all, what were they fighting this war for anyway, if not to make life better for those coming after them? Sure, the war was still ongoing, but LeBeau wouldn't begrudge them a brighter present just because his past was dark.</p><p>And so LeBeau decided to do what he could to ease their burdens. Somehow he procured two pheasants and a make-shift oven big enough to cook them. He even tried his hand at an American pumpkin pie with cream.</p><p>And now, gathered around the table in Barracks 2, he sat back, satisfied as he watched the Americans laugh and joke and happily reminisce about Christmas, without a trace of those dreaded allergies.</p><p>Yes, the Americans had it easy. And he wouldn't have it any other way.</p>
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